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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281020">Circling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnQKole/pseuds/JohnQKole'>JohnQKole</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fleabag (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:15:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>38,385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnQKole/pseuds/JohnQKole</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if The Priest got Fleabag a taxi at the end of Season 2 Episode 1. Plays with building tension, blurring lines, and growing feelings. Forgive me for messing with the perfection of Season 2 canon.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>215</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>A/N-Hey all! Hope all of you are staying healthy and still navigating this seemingly eternal quarantine and distancing. </em></b>
</p><p><b> <em>I decided to commit a little sacrilege of my own and start a story in the last few moments of S02E01. It seems wrong to erase a large part of the absolute beauty that was Season 2, but I am for one reason: I miss them and all that fucking amazing tension!</em></b> <b><em> I adored their flirting and playfulness and connection and that unavoidable pull between them that he fought until he couldn't. I wanted more of it.</em> </b></p><p>
  <b> <em>So I'll start at the end of that first episode of the season, stretching out the time between the engagement dinner and the wedding of Dad and Godmother a little bit. You'll see some of the same events, and a few quotes that I used almost directly from the show because when I tried to write new responses, it sounded all wrong because the "true" words were already out there.</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>I also decided, for some parts of the story, to follow The Priest into his life apart from what Fleabag can see. </em></b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Now that the author's notes are probably longer than the story, here's the first chap. :) Thanks to all of you who read. </em></b>
</p><hr/><p>I feel a constant ache in my knuckles. My nose only hurts when I talk. Or breathe. Or touch it. But getting to hit Martin still feels really fucking good, so all-in-all, probably a fair trade. </p><p>As I walk out of the bathroom, The Priest is waiting for me. "I got your stuff," he says, handing me my bag and coat. </p><p>"Thanks," I reply, studying him, realizing he is literally the only one who has stuck around. We trade polite 'are you okays' and just as I feel the blood begin to tickle the edge of my nostril again, he says, "Called a taxi, so you're all set."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You said you're going to see a doctor?"</p><p>"Oh, right."</p><p>"I hope you don't mind—"</p><p>"—that's...thoughtful."</p><p>We walk to the door together, and he's carefully accompanying me, inquiring, "Feeling at all unsteady?"</p><p>"No," I look at him like the question is ridiculous. </p><p>"I thought...between getting hit in the head and t—the...everything that's happened…"</p><p>"Right, thanks. But I'm fine."</p><p>"Good," he smiles with a quick, rapid nod, a shadowed bruise already a little darker beneath his eye. But he's watching me to make sure what I've said is true. </p><p>I slip my arms into my coat sleeves and pull it tightly around me. "I <em> really </em> am fine," I insist.</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>He takes out a napkin, folds it over as we near the taxi, gives it to me, and says, "If you need anything, want to talk or...whatever...I'll be there. I'm always there."</p><p>"Okay," I reply, taking his information and getting into the taxi as his fingers hold the edges of the door. I'm not sure if he's trying to keep it open or preparing to shut it. I don't think he knows which either. </p><p>He leans down, looking like he's going back and forth in his head, and he asks, "If it's not too much trouble, you mind if I share the ride?"</p><p>"Uh," I look around, not sure what the hell to do, but he's caring and flustered, and so hot, so I finally scoot over and say, "It's your taxi." <em> Looks like I'm going to the hospital. </em></p><p>He gets in, giving orders to the driver and settling in the seat. We're quiet as we pass by buildings and cross-streets. I'm not sure exactly what qualifies as good small talk in this situation.<em> Should I tell him I don't often punch people in the face? I'd really like to clear this whole mess up straight away, and tell him I haven't actually had a miscarriage tonight, but it seems an oddly deranged lie to have told if it's completely fabricated, and if I tell him about Claire, I'm divulging her secret</em>. </p><p>I stay silent. </p><p>Leaning over until his shoulder brushes mine, The Priest whispers so the driver cannot hear, "Anyone you want to call? Someone who can stay with you?"</p><p>"No." <em> Mine was an oddly immaculate and solitary conception. And a painless and tidy miscarriage as well.  </em></p><p>"Is the father...?"</p><p>"Oh, he doesn't really...exist."</p><p>He nods like we're wordlessly sharing an understanding of the intricacies here. He has no idea. </p><p>"Can you let me out just up here, please?" I abruptly ask the driver.</p><p>"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry," The Priest says, believing I'm abandoning the vehicle because he's upset me. </p><p>I point to the spot where I want to be left out. </p><p>The driver pulls over as The Priest asks, "Still a bit of a walk to get to—"</p><p>I hurriedly get out of the taxi, turning back and seeing that caring, concerned expression. I'm not ready for us to go our separate ways yet. I also have no real need to see a doctor. "Need a smoke," I explain.</p><p>"Erm," he replies very softly, glancing at the driver, once again choosing what to do. </p><p>"You coming?"</p><p>"Yea," he answers almost immediately. He quickly pays and practically leaps out to join me. He looks kind of pleased to be invited along, which I can only assume demonstrates how intensely boring his normal days must be. He points at the pack as I flick my lighter and asks, "Any chance you have another spare—"</p><p>"Well…" I begin with dramatic over-consideration.</p><p>"That's okay," he gives up too easily.</p><p>"Jesus, you covered my dinner and got me a ride. I think I can spare one."</p><p>"Thanks," he smiles as I hand it to him. Earlier, I intentionally avoided contact, but this time I let fingers brush. I light it for him, and the task takes an extra second or two because he's studying me rather than making sure the end of the cigarette and the flame come in contact. When he realizes, he nervously hurries. </p><p>After a long drag, he leans a shoulder against the wall behind us, partially angled toward me.</p><p>I mirror him, leaning as well, keeping a polite little distance between. He sneers and scoffs and boldly says, "Oh, fine then," like he's annoyed.</p><p>"What?" I snap back.</p><p>"Well, I figured you'd leave me alone in peace to enjoy it rather than join me this time."</p><p>I laugh awkwardly, staring into those mischievous eyes and noting that smirk.</p><p>"Are priests allowed to be arseholes?" I ask.</p><p>"Of course! We have to have something to do with our spare time."</p><p>We share grins and a long held stare that I enjoy a bit too much. His head drops back against the brick as he breaks our connection first, blowing out the smoke with a bit of a chuckle. I think he's tired, and I wonder if he wakes in the pre-dawn hours and engages in long sessions of repeated rote prayers, or if he talks to God in the same casual, sweary way he talks to everyone else.</p><p>"What about smoking and drinking?" I ask.</p><p>He's confused. "What about them?"</p><p>"Aren't they bad? Off limits? Are you sinning your life away this evening, forced to engage in hours of repentance in the morning?"</p><p>"If we're forced to give up drinking, they'd lose half the priests that are left. I don't think clergy are as different from everyone else as you think."</p><p>"Oh, we...we are."</p><p>"Really? How so?"</p><p>
  <em> He asks every question with what appears to be genuine interest. </em>
</p><p>I look across the street at a dirt-tinged, barely-lit pub sign and say, "Well, since you're allowed, we should probably discuss it over a drink."</p><p>"Now?"</p><p>"Yea."</p><p>"Shouldn't you be getting to—"</p><p>"Just not quite ready yet to...you know," I nod in a meaningful way so he'll complete the thoughts in his own mind so I don't have to lie even more. </p><p>"If you'd like. I could use another drink."</p><hr/><p>We're on our second drink now, just since coming to this new place. It's not exactly a nice spot, but the drinks are strong, and it's really entertaining to watch the few that notice us try to figure out why he's bruised and my face is bloody while we're dressed nicely enough. Quite a pair. He appears entirely at ease here, so I'm pretty certain he's spent plenty of time at establishments like this.</p><p>The bartender hands me a napkin and points at my nose, and I proudly say, "Saturday!" in a way that makes it sound like fights are a normal part of this type of evening. She nods and thumps the bar with a loose fist like she truly understands while I use my chilled glass to ease the persistent pain in my hand from its collision with Martin's face.</p><p>I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look more like I belong in this mirror than the last I used, with a dim flickering light above, a sizable chip in the glass, and a missing sink in the spot next to mine where one appears to have gone missing. <em> My jumpsuit is still amazing. </em></p><p>As soon as I return to the spot next to The Priest, he's chatting again like he hasn't had a conversation in ages. </p><p>
  <em> He really is fun. Perhaps I should feel guilty for flirting with him, but I don't. He started it with that little 'fuck you then' comment anyway, and is keeping up pretty well.  </em>
</p><p>He chuckles as his story ends, taking a sip and finishing his glass. He glances at a clock, and I quickly order another round before he can suggest that we leave. <em> To be honest, this is the best date I can recall. Too bad it's with a priest. </em></p><p>"I know what's going on," he says, his voice a little sing-songy from the alcohol. He reaches over and taps his finger on the rim of my glass, a gesture that feels far more erotic than it sounds.</p><p><em> This'll be good. </em>"What's that, Father?" I lean a little closer. </p><p>Speaking softly so others can't hear, he guesses, "You don't want to sit in a hospital room, thinking about what's happened, facing it. Is that, perhaps, part of why we're still here? Avoiding it?"</p><p>"Oh." I pause. "Well…it's…" I don't know how to answer, so I simply don't.</p><p>His fingers tap my wrist where it rests next to my drink before retreating. With empathy, he continues, "I don't know exactly what you're feeling. Maybe sadness. Or relief. Disbelief, confusion, a sense of loss. Maybe guilt or freedom. Maybe many of those things."</p><p>"Sure." <em> I don't want him to go into priestly counsel mode, I want him to go back to flirty, drinking mode. </em></p><p>"But I hope you know that whatever feelings you have are okay. Loss means different things to different people at different times in their lives, and I don't know the circumstances that brought you here to this point...but God is—"</p><p>"Oh, I don't believe in God."</p><p>Just ahead of us, a bottle crashes, sending glass and cheap whiskey across the floor as drunken patrons jeer. A string of rather poetic swears comes from the bartender who must clean up the mess. The Priest thinks the crash is an aptly delivered heavenly response to my statement. I tell myself that it's not. </p><p>I shake my head to let him know I stand by my disbelief even though I feel a bit shaken.  </p><p>"Alright," he nods without scorn, seemingly unoffended when I definitely expect some measure of disapproval.</p><p>I consider this for a moment, then ask, "Shouldn't you be more judgy?"</p><p>"What?" he counters loudly, palming his fresh drink to have it at the ready, like he may need it after hearing my answer.</p><p>"I'm the unwed sexually active atheist who committed an act of violence that caused an all-out brawl during a family party. Aren't those kinds of things frowned upon in your religion?"</p><p>Leaving his drink on the counter for a second, he slightly shakes his head while he considers my question, then he turns his hands palms up in an 'oh-well' sort of gesture and says, "No one's perfect."</p><p>I can't help but giggle a bit at his response, and he watches with amusement in return.</p><p>The soft laughter fades, although a gentle smile remains on each of our faces. My chin is braced on my palm as I remain quite near him. He leans back in again so we're both almost over my glass and asks, "Is that what you want? You want me to judge you?" It's an honest question. </p><p>We sit too close, eyes locked, and he waits with ridiculous patience. I don't want to leave this web I'm trapped in, hoping that if I wriggle a bit, I might get properly stuck here. </p><p>
  <em> While I'm certain I'm not hoping to be judged, this does all beg the question: What the fuck do I want?</em>
</p><p>"You alright?" he asks.</p><p>"Fine," I manage to answer. "I wasn't <em>hoping</em> for judgement, I'm just confused by the absence of it."</p><p>"It's my job to listen. I find it's much easier to get to know someone when you really hear what they have to say with an open heart and mind."</p><p>"Is that why you asked me for a drink?" </p><p>His leg moves to mine as he turns on the bar stool, my knee against his thigh, and it takes everything I have not to press into the touch.</p><p>Just as I think he's about to say something really flirty, he says, "I can't answer that."</p><p>"Why?" I challenge, like maybe I've caught him admitting something. </p><p>"Well...because stopping here for a drink was your idea."</p><p>I replay our interactions and finally concede, "True," with some reluctance.</p><p>"So I'll ask you that same question."</p><p>He holds the most intriguing playful smirk, and then, when it's clear I'm not going to answer no matter what, he says, "I'll go with you to see the doctor, if you'd like. Just someone to hold your bag and coat and keep you company while you wait to be seen. And I'll step away whenever you want."</p><p>I pause, studying him uncertainly. "You'd <em> really </em> do that, wouldn't you?"</p><p>"I would. I will."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Because…" he stalls, surveying the piece of counter directly in front of us. He takes a contemplative breath, then turns to me and says with a little tilt of his head, "...because I know what it's like to be alone." With a long held and decisive pause, I know how true his words are. </p><p>I feel a connection to this man who is offering companionship when he has so little to gain from it, saddened by the fact that it's all based on something that hasn't actually happened.</p><p>"Claire," is the only word I say when I remember who really needs a companion right now.</p><p>"What?" he tries to interpret my unexpected response.</p><p>"I think...I need to go with my sister."</p><p>"Are you sure? She wasn't exactly…" he stops, not wanting to say the wrong thing. And, sure, to him she probably did appear uncaring about 'my' predicament, but really she was only trying to forget about her own. Finally he says, "Do you want to call her or—"</p><p>"I'll have her meet me." Whether she wants to or not, she should be seen by a professional<em>. </em></p><p>He stands to accompany me. I text Claire and tell her where to meet me, threatening to show up and scream through her letterbox if she doesn't come.</p><p>He walks with me to the hospital. I wonder what things would have been like had I known someone like him when I had to cope with real loss. Not that I would have confided in him, but there's something really nice about him just being around.</p><p>When we arrive in front of the hospital, we turn to face each other, trying to find the right words for this particular parting of ways. He puts his hand on my forearm and says, "You're still welcome to come see me. Anytime."</p><p>"Oh—"</p><p>I believe he's worried I'll turn him down, so he interrupts and offers, "Don't pass up an opportunity to have a drink and judge me for my lack of judginess." He smiles. </p><p>"I wasn't judging you. I was just...surprised by you, I guess." I say the words like I'm offering a compliment, because I am. Few people are truly surprising.</p><p>He pauses, glancing away since he understands the depth of such words. When his focus returns to my face, he adds with kind empathy, "I hope everything's alright."</p><p>His hand squeezes my arm before he takes a few steps away. He turns back just for a moment, and then he nods a casual goodbye. I watch him disappear down the street as I wait for Claire.</p><hr/><p>The Priest, a bit more sober for the long walk back, has spent every moment since he left The Woman at the steps of the hospital contemplating the evening and its occurrences. He wonders why her sister seemed so unconcerned, or why Martin spoke so cruelly. He wonders who in the hell 'the tooth man' is. He really wishes he knew <em>her</em>. She's very intriguing. </p><p>He stops in the church before heading to bed, casually walking through the rows to make sure everything is as it should be. Making his way up into the sacristy, he takes a bottle from his cupboards and pours another drink since he's not ready for too much sobriety just yet.</p><p>He spends a lot of time in this room, thinking, drinking, praying, writing homilies, listening to music. He prefers this room to the rooms at the rectory. Sitting on the chair at the head of the table, he tilts his glass and rolls the base of it side to side as he talks to God. He prays earnestly for the soul of the lost baby and the wellbeing of The Woman. He begins to pray that he hopes she'll come seek him out in the next few weeks or months, then defends aloud, "Just so I can help her through all this." He winces, knowing the pointlessness of telling half-truths to an omniscient God. "Okay...so, perhaps, selfishly, I could do with a friend." He gazes up and adds emphatically, "Just a friend! That's all!" more as a promise to himself than for any other reason. After all, once she realizes he's very serious about his vocation, she'll grow bored of him. </p><p>It was really good to talk with someone like that again, feeling a little challenged. He finds her surprising, too. He doesn't have conversations like that with other priests, or Pam, or members of his congregation. Sure, perhaps they were flirting, just a little. </p><p>Quickly dismissing the remembered feeling of their legs brushing as they sat on their barstools, or the strangely intense sensation of her fingers touching his when she handed him that second cigarette, he silently reminds himself not to allow the playful flirting to become anything more than that. He's certain he has complete control over this.</p><p>After all, there's nothing wrong with sharing a laugh or exchanging a look or having a drink. There's no sin in feeling a real connection to another person. He hasn't taken vows of solitude or silence, and the aloneness that had once felt so appealing has become a bit, well, lonely.</p><p>He leans his forehead into his palm, tiredness creeping up on him. It's past his usual bedtime. </p><p>He thanks God for the evening out, for a shot of excitement to break up long days that have become a little too routine and predictable. He touches the sore spot just below his eye, hissing, "Fuck," at the tenderness he finds there, then chuckling softly as he thinks about the fact that he ended up with a black eye at an engagement party. He'll certainly always remember the first wedding he'll perform. "What a strange night," he notes aloud with obvious appreciation.</p><p>Officially he ends his prayer, standing to finally take himself to bed.</p><p>His limbs weighty with sleepiness, his eyes finally close once he's beneath his blankets in the dark. In that moment just before sleep, he sees a flashed image of her smiling at him over her shoulder, and he smiles back at her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> A/N-This chapter was complete for a while, but I felt there were more important things I should be doing after another Black person was brutally and senselessly murdered. I think it was important to take a pause from things as usual to take stock, to listen, to take action. I suspect some of you will hate that I've brought this up. Some may feel this isn't the right place to mention things like this. </em> <em>Until there is Justice...every place is the right place to mention this.</em></p><p>
  <em>But now we're back to this story.  Thanks all for your support and for reading. Hope you enjoy this next installment. </em>
</p><hr/><p>This day marks the first time The Priest comes to the realization that his boundaries aren't exactly impenetrable. This realization dawns on him while he's saying mass, as he's done countless times now, and she calls out a response at the wrong time. Oh, he somehow knows it's her before he scans the rows to find her, but he looks anyway because he simply <em> must. </em>Once his eyes meet hers, it does nothing to help his composure. She gives that little 'hello' smile. He almost forgets how to finish what he's started. He almost forgets his name. He almost forgets he's a priest. </p><p>But he recovers, hoping to hell that no one noticed the way he flustered upon noticing her. He tells himself that he covered it pretty well. </p><p>And he invites her into his sacristy to share a drink, and they chat and flirt yet again. As she's leaving, he stumbles over a box of things for the fête since he's managed to become completely bumbling ever since he noticed her here. He tries to cover his clumsiness by mentioning that he has to get all of this set up in the churchyard the next day. Since he won't accept money for the meal or the taxi or the drinks he bought her after that strange engagement dinner, she offers to volunteer at the fête.</p><p>Even that flusters him a little, but he doesn't have any inclination to refuse the offer.</p><p>He walks her out when she leaves to go open her café, and when he returns to the sacristy, full of various tingly, excited feelings, he quickly hurries about his required duties, perhaps feeling just a little guilty for the thrill he has at the thought of seeing her again tomorrow.</p><hr/><p>I go to the fête to volunteer because I can't <em> not </em> go. Every look, each time any parts of us touch, I feel that flood of excitement. It's true...a simple, kindly arm touch from The Priest makes me a bit hot.</p><p>I saw Harry here earlier, and was sort of relieved that I had no desire whatsoever to be back with him again. I didn't feel at all compelled to fall into my one-time safety net anymore, and there's a sense of freedom in that. Of course I also really enjoyed the way The Priest hurried over quickly almost as soon as he saw us talking. </p><p>All day it seemed like there were scarcely enough volunteers to keep things running, but as things wind down near the end of the event, I feel like I can't get a moment with him for all the other people around. I'm clearly not the only person who enjoys his company.</p><p>It's getting late. Somewhat disappointedly, I know things are ending, and I'll have to be going, so I take the leftover unclaimed prizes and some props and carry them into the church basement storage room where I'd been instructed to leave other items I've taken in. </p><p>"More boxes!" he loudly calls as he joins me. He's a little breathless as he catches up with a very heavy box and skirts around me.  His elbow glances against my back. "You really didn't have to do this, but it is greatly appreciated."</p><p>"No problem." <em> Wouldn't mind being stuck in this tiny room with him a little while. </em></p><p>"I thought, if you don't have any—well, you probably do, don't you?"</p><p>"Have any what?"</p><p>"Plans. You probably have better plans tonight than—"</p><p>"Not really. Just...this."</p><p>"Well then, can I get you a drink to say thanks for your assistance?"</p><p>"Oh, is that the best idea?" I joke.</p><p>That seems to stun him just a bit. "You've nothing to worry about. I'm not trying to...you know." He pauses, waits, shakes a hand to brush away the possibility of even the idea. <em> I'm going to let him go on and see where he lands. </em> "I'm not trying to have sex with you. There's no way that'll happen."</p><p>"How flattering!"</p><p>"No! I didn't mean...not because of you. You're..." he looks me over in a very brief but approving way, nodding to punctuate his certainty. "I just...it would ruin...this."</p><p>I feel a sickening growth of disappointment that I hope he doesn't see, but I think he's so adamantly denying it because he knows what I know: <em> There's no way we can resist forever. </em></p><p>I inhale deeply to reset, and say as casually as possible, "That wasn't what I meant, though. I wanted to know if it's a good idea to thank me with a drink tonight because I was already here helping so I could thank you for the taxi, drinks, and dinner you covered for me a few nights ago." </p><p>Now he's embarrassed at his assumption.</p><p>I continue, "We might start an unending cycle we won't be able to escape. You'll get me a drink, then I come volunteer again to say thanks, prompting you to once again show appreciation with another drink—"</p><p>"When will it end?" he cheerily counters.</p><p>"Exactly."</p><p>We chuckle a little awkwardly. I don't know what it is about him that makes me feel this shy flush I've rarely experienced in my adult life.</p><p>I try to think of what to say to change the subject, but he speaks first. "Would that really be so bad? A cycle of drinks and volunteering? It's a perfect situation, for me at least. More help for my church, good company to drink with."</p><p>I stare for a moment, considering what he's offering, the thought of many drinks and other shared times beyond this. </p><p>"Come on," he nudges, "I'm not half bad company, am I?"</p><p>"I've had worse."</p><p>He's already walking closer to me, touching the back of my arm and turning me toward the door. </p><p>We sit on the edge of the table in the little room off the main church, sharing a drink. </p><p>"Was it difficult for you?" he asks like I should be able to follow his thoughts and know what he's referring to. He adds, joking, "Seeing your old girlfriend?"</p><p>I laugh. "Oh. Harry. No, it wasn't difficult. We weren't exactly a great match. I really am happy for him."</p><p>"I just mean...given your recent loss, he showed up with his child…" The Priest winces. He is genuinely concerned.</p><p>
  <em> I was really hoping he'd forgotten about that whole miscarrige thing.  </em>
</p><p>"You okay?" he asks, baffled.</p><p>"I'm fine. It was fine. Really." </p><p>"You can talk to me," he encourages, "about anything at all."</p><p>"Oh, but I really am—"</p><p>"—fine," he completes my thoughts. "Yea. I know. You can trust me, even if it's only because I've no friends to tell," he says with a little reassuring smile. </p><p>"I really do appreciate it."</p><p>"I might've just lied," he notes thoughtfully. "Unintentionally."</p><p>I laugh. "About?"</p><p>"Selfishly I kind of hope I do have a friend." He waits, glancing over, looking a bit vulnerable. </p><p>"You think God's okay with you having a friend like me?"</p><p>"He'd encourage it! If we only surround ourselves with people who are the same as us, who don't challenge us, that seems cowardly, in a way." He takes a sip. "Also sounds <em> really </em> boring."</p><p>"You think God's testing you? Putting little temptations in the way to see if He can make you fail?"</p><p>"It's life that tests us, I think."</p><p>"So He just uses those tests life gives and opportunistically keeps track of how you handle them?"</p><p>"It's not only about judgment!" he excitedly responds to this line of discussion. "He's there for us, to help us navigate, to turn to when we need Him. To forgive us when we've fallen short. No matter how badly we've messed up, He's always ready to forgive, to welcome us back."</p><p>"So, really, if you can rampantly sin, then ask for forgiveness and all's forgotten, doesn't that make you wonder if you should do it more?" The words are even more suggestive than they may seem, and my little flirtation hits him right where I want it to. He smiles subtly, then looks away. And I see it. The temptation is there, in spite of his insistence that we won't cross certain lines. </p><p>
  <em> This is the first time I've engaged in theological flirting, but I think I'm pretty good at it. </em>
</p><p>Sadly, he's unconvinced by my suggestion. "God sees us, beyond our actions, beyond our words. He's a loving Father who knows our hearts, our true selves. It isn't about trying to work around the rules."</p><p>"So at the end, you think you'll see this loving, fatherly God, up on His great throne in the clouds amidst scantily clad winged-angels, and He'll look it all over, weigh the good and the bad, and decide whether or not you'll have endless happiness or are damned for eternity? Kind of harsh for a loving dad, don't you think?" </p><p>He chuckles, then, shaking his head, he argues, "That's ridiculous."</p><p>
  <em> Exactly. </em>
</p><p>With bold certainty, he adds, "Everyone knows it's St. Peter who stands at the pearly gates of Heaven and looks in a gigantic golden book and tells you whether or not you're allowed in, or if a trap door will open in the clouds beneath your feet and you'll fall into the depths of a fiery Hell."</p><p>I stare, waiting. <em> Really? </em></p><p>He takes a slow drink, then gradually looks over at me and grins. "Only joking. I don't picture it as thrones and pearly gates with saintly gatekeepers. That's convenient imagery for some, but for me, God is love, the very source of life itself."</p><p>A church bell tolls from above, and he notes with surprise, "Fuck, it's late. I have a funeral tomorrow morning."</p><p>I lift my drink to feel its weight so I know how much I need to finish. "Well, it was fun—"</p><p>He pats my wrist and says, "Don't rush. I'm not done with mine either."</p><p>"Is that sad, doing funerals?" </p><p>"I suppose, in a way, but I always end up feeling completely the opposite, actually. And, if you don't mind me saying, we really know how to give a proper send off."</p><p>I laugh loudly at the really strange boast.</p><p>"No, I'm serious," he defends. "Funerals are for the living, for those left behind. It's a chance to say goodbye to a person as we knew them, all while acknowledging that their lives aren't over, they've just changed. It's important to mourn properly, celebrate the life that existed."</p><p>He shows me his funereal robes, oddly not black. Although his enthusiasm practically boils over, he yawns, and I finish my drink. As I stand, he has this sleepy, alcohol-tinged smile, and says, "Truly, thanks for your help."</p><p>"Night, Father," I reply, noting that pull between us. </p><p>He tilts his head and says like we're conspiring, "We could hold one, if you'd like. Unofficially."</p><p>"One what?"</p><p>"A little funeral or memorial. For your baby."</p><p>"Erm, well...I'm not Catholic."</p><p>"That doesn't matter in a case like this. Just a small gathering, you and me, here or anywhere you want. You should consider it. A chance to say goodbye so you can mourn properly and move on with—"</p><p>I'm not sure if he stops talking or if I just can't hear him anymore because I'm walking swiftly right the hell out of there. It was too much, his presumptuousness and his kindness in response to my lie. And I don't know what the fuck to say or do. And this all makes me profoundly sad, mostly because I don't think I'll see him again until that awful wedding that I'm truly hoping is canceled.</p><hr/><p>The Priest drinks far too much in the hours after she leaves, then hopes to avoid the almost certain hangover he'll have in the morning so he'll be able to preside over the scheduled funeral. But mostly he's deeply disappointed. He really, truly, enjoys her company. He wants so much more of it.</p><p>He replays the last few moments of their time together, fully regretting his offer even though he thought it may help. Clearly he was wrong. He should have just marked some passages in the Bible that might give her comfort.</p><p>After a funeral for an elderly parishioner early the next day, he's walking around the churchyard, unable to think of anything else for long before his thoughts return to <em> her</em>. He considers trying to find her, just to apologize, but isn't sure if he wants to ask her family where she might be after the mess he saw the last time they were all together. He decides it may be best simply to wait for that wedding, and try to see her there. </p><p>It frightens him a bit that he feels like two-and-a-half weeks is too long to go without seeing her, without trying to make things right. </p><p>He prays with silent devotion that another way might present itself. Just as he tells himself the very best option is patience, he hears the low, mellow hum of a bassoon warming up for practice. Pausing his prayer, he glances up at the sky and says aloud, "Thank you."</p><hr/><p>I lock the door to the café as I leave and hear a pleasant, "Hello," come from behind me in that gentle voice I've missed all day.</p><p>I swallow, looking around like there might be clues surrounding us that can explain why he's here. "Hi," I reply. </p><p>"Your nephew was practicing with the youthy band, and I asked him where to find you. Which is quite interesting because usually when I speak to him, he's asking where your sister is."</p><p>"Sounds about right."</p><p>His sort-of chuckle is full of nerves. "I hope my asking isn't too...creepy."</p><p>"No creepier than Jake himself!" I joke.</p><p>The Priest laughs, nodding in agreement, but says more appropriately, "He's...unique."</p><p>"That's a holy way to put it."</p><p>Still a little shy beneath his attempts to appear otherwise, he asks, "Can I have just t—three minutes of your time?"</p><p>"Sure," I reply awkwardly because I'm wondering if I should tell him where I was headed just before he arrived.</p><p>"Go about whatever you were doing. I don't want to get in the way of your plans." </p><p>I nod in the right direction and start to walk.</p><p>He begins, "I want to apologize for—"</p><p>"—look—" I try to interrupt but am in turn interrupted.</p><p>"—please. Just let me say this."</p><p>"Okay. Go on."</p><p>"I wasn't trying to convert you, or push my beliefs on you. I only wanted to offer comfort in the best way I know how: God and drinks," he smiles and reads my reaction. "I didn't mean to—"</p><p>"It's okay," I quickly offer.</p><p>"I didn't want to dredge up painful thoughts. I just think...you deserve a chance to grieve, but it should be in your own way...not mine or anyone else's. And I really wanted—"</p><p>"—that's not what happened—"</p><p>"—to help."</p><p>"Look, I didn't have a fucking miscarriage, okay?" I hastily explain.</p><p>When the words are out, he continues to walk by my side, but I can tell he's trying very hard to mute his reaction to the revelation. His eyes request an explanation.</p><p>I sigh, "I was covering for my sister. She had the miscarriage and her husband didn't know she was pregnant. I was trying to get her to see a doctor, and I thought she would, but she changed her mind and then..." <em> I don't know what else I can possibly say.  </em></p><p>He breathes a tiny laugh, and nods, quiet, walking by my side. <em> Why is he still walking with me? </em></p><p>Since he seems to be sticking around, I continue, "I know it seems like a ridiculous lie, but I really need to know that you won't say anything to Claire or least of all Martin or—"</p><p>"I won't say a word to anyone," he finally speaks. Then with a little smile, he adds, "I've got no other friends to tell."</p><p>We walk in silence for a block or two. Well more than three minutes have passed, but I don't want him to leave.</p><p>We pause at a street corner where it's not yet safe to cross, and he turns to me and says, eyes narrow as he studies me, "So you hit Martin because of what he said to your sister, even though he thought he was saying it to you."</p><p>"Oh," I shake my head, considering it all. The road is clear for our crossing, but we still stand at the edge of it as we speak. "I dunno."</p><p>"That's how it seems to me."</p><p>"I hit Martin because…" I shake my head, trying to put words to it, wondering how much brutal honesty he can handle before he decides I'm too un-churchy to associate with. "...I can't stand his face and that snide smile and all of that disgustingness that just oozes off him. Ugh." I sneer with Martin-appropriate levels of disapproval. </p><p>He gives a tilted nod, but then says, "You're really close to your sister?"</p><p>I start to walk again, wishing to outrun the question. When I feel him holding onto it, I add, "We're not that close anymore."</p><p>"Okay," he says with a tone of disbelief. </p><p>"She thinks I tried to kiss her husband," I confess, watching his eyes widen notably, and he grimaces slightly, and I love the fact that even The Priest finds Martin a little slimy. "I didn't."</p><p>"Okay," he says like he has no doubt of the truth.</p><p>"Well why is it you believe me when no one else does?" It was meant as a joke, but the question pings something in my head. I remember Boo and what Claire had said, but we're not going to talk about that. And then I remember that he, too, has a very good reason not to believe me. I add, "I may seem like some sort of deranged liar given that I lied about a miscarriage—"</p><p>"You sound like a person who cares deeply for her sister." He says it like it's irrefutable.</p><p>I sit at the bus stop, and he waits directly beside me.</p><p>The bus, by some inexplicable miracle, comes on time. I get in, and he still follows along. <em> He's been with me far more than three minutes. </em>He takes the seat right next to mine, shoulders and knees close. Our bodies bump sometimes when the bus jerks or turns. He asks some questions about my family as we ride along, probably because he's dying to know what other previous circumstances led to that wild family dinner, but I ask him about the success of his fête instead and whether they raised the needed funds. </p><p>His expression tells me wordlessly that he knows I'm just avoiding the topic, and he doesn't exactly like that, but I've done quite enough talking for the evening. He allows himself to be redirected, but wants me to know it's only by personal choice. </p><p>But once he chooses to answer, he throws himself entirely back into this conversation. Even when I stand and get off the bus, he follows, still talking, still completely unaware of where he's following me to. </p><p>We walk just a little more, and he seems surprised to find himself in front of his church when I stop and turn to face him. He looks up at the lit front of the building, then at me, and his eyes ask the question. I really love the fact that he was so rapt in our conversation, so attentive to me, that he didn't realize where we were headed until we arrived.</p><p>"You said to go about my plans." I explain.</p><p>"And you were going…" he glances at the main door, "...to my church?"</p><p>I nod.</p><p>"Why?" he asks. His expression seems hopeful for a certain type of answer.</p><p>"I...wanted to apologize for earlier."</p><p>He waves it off. "Forget it." There are several seconds with the power of hours that pass as we stare. Just as the pull between us becomes truly uncomfortable, we say at the same time, "Well, I should be—" and then pause and wait for the excuse of the other.</p><p>"—getting some things ready for tomorrow," he finishes his response.</p><p>"—going home," I say. It's ridiculous how awkward this goodbye is. "I guess I'll see you at the wedding?"</p><p>"Yea. The wedding," he pauses, flounders, struggles with what should be said next, "unless…"</p><p>"Unless?"</p><p>"We have a workshop coming up at the church two evenings from now." He adds quickly, "We're looking at some of the religious texts that were excluded from the official Bible...a little controversial, gets everyone a bit excited."</p><p>"Oh, I'm sure it's a wild night at the church!"</p><p>"It is." </p><p>"But I'm not really into studying the Bible."</p><p>"Well this is the opposite, in a way...the books excluded. So in all actuality, not a study of the Bible at all." He tries to dismiss his own churchy corrections, "Anyway...I was wondering if your café could possibly do some pastries and coffee and tea...whatever you could manage."</p><p>"Probably could."</p><p>"Don't have much to spend but—"</p><p>"Well, we could come up with something. Maybe you can put in a good word with St. Paul for me so he'll let me in that Heaven of yours in the nearly impossible circumstance that it actually exists."</p><p>"That won't help you at all."</p><p>"Thanks!" I blurt out a laugh.</p><p>"It won't help because it's St. Peter, not St. Paul, traditionally. I mean, if the man stands at the gates of Heaven and holds your eternal fate in his hands, the least you could do is get his name right!" he teases.</p><p>Fuck he makes me giggle.</p><p>"I can pay <em> something</em>.  And we'll put a mention of your place in the newsletter, some advertising.  If you're very lucky, I'll write a review," he tempts. "And, who knows, maybe you'll enjoy it if you give it a chance."</p><p>"Maybe," I say doubtfully.</p><p>"I'll stop by tomorrow then, set it up?"</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>"Great." He takes a few steps away, and then looks back, "I'll expect samples tomorrow so I can be sure everything is up to the high standards of a church basement gathering." His grin is infectious. </p><p>"You want food that's cheap and tastes good? That's some pretty high expectations."</p><p>"I have faith," he says before he leaves with a casual wave goodbye.  </p><hr/><p>The Priest feels such a sense of relief that he's made amends with his new friend. She's managed to become important to him after just a few days.</p><p>He thanks God for the bassoon he heard at the right time, and the bassoonist who helped him find her. Even though she's resistant, he enjoys inviting her into his church, into his world. It's really nice to have her there. For a while, he prays for the many other things he needs to remember. But at the end, his thoughts go back to her as he closes. </p><p>While checking that his alarm is set properly for the early mass he needs to say in the morning, he remembers the last moment he saw her and that little smile she wore. </p><p>His thoughts are suddenly invaded with an uninvited image of them together in her bed. He can feel her hand on the cap of his shoulder, her face beside his. The sensation of pushing into her body, of being inside her, the two of them moving together, is all too real. He hears her moaning beneath him as clearly as he feels the vibrations of sound.</p><p>He's there in every way but reality, sensing it, being completely swallowed up by a vivid image that lasts only four or five seconds at the very most. And then he feels the utter aloneness, the complete lack of sensation and sound and company, when the fantasy is swiftly ripped away. "Woah," he says into the air.</p><p>The Priest takes mindful, almost meditative breaths, refocusing his thoughts.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Fucking Martin! </em>
</p><p>I'm working through the lunch rush, watching the steady flow of patrons begin to ease. My head swims a little when I see The Priest ambling toward me, recognizing him more by his walk than his appearance, at first, because he's dressed in ordinary clothes. Something about that excites me. It's naked, in a way.</p><p>Balancing as many empty plates and cups as I can that were left on vacated tables, I pause to smile at him and say, "Hey."</p><p>"Need a hand?" he offers immediately, taking a few of the dishes and following along. He brings the items to the counter for me, waiting until I gesture for him to follow me back to the sink. "Pretty busy today?" he asks.</p><p>I try to forget Martin. "Uh, yea. A bit." I intentionally smile.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Nothing."</p><p>"No...What is it?"</p><p>"Nothing!" I say, sounding angrier than I intend to. <em> I'm really panicking right now. Fucking Martin and— </em></p><p>"What are you doing?" The Priest asks, a look of pure bewilderment on his face.</p><p>"Nothing!" </p><p>"Okay." He forces a tense smile.</p><p>"What do you want to eat?" I ask, remembering his request from the previous night to try the food.</p><p>He takes some of the dishes, making himself at home here, momentarily ignoring my question. "Back at home, when I was young, I had a job as a dishwasher."</p><p>Quelching the nervous racing of my thoughts at the prospect of prison, I joke, "If God ever fires you, I'll take you on."</p><p>He pauses, looking into my eyes. I feel truly uncomfortable sometimes at the way he seems to see me, but I'm addicted to that same feeling as well. As he rinses some dishes, he manages to splash himself pretty good because he isn't paying attention. After he laughs at himself, he continues, "I'll finish these…as I do, if you want, you could tell me what's troubling you."</p><p>"You're really nosy, aren't you?" I say with a laugh, but the discomfort within me isn't at all funny.</p><p>"Not really."</p><p>"Do you sit at home, watching people through the cracks in the window curtains?"</p><p>"No," he shakes his head, smirks, then lightly adds, "I just sit in the confessional, and people come to me with their secrets."</p><p>The grin that follows fills me with that same mixed batter of confusion, awkwardness, and arousal. <em> He's kind of annoying</em>.</p><p>"Ask me anything," he offers. </p><p>"Anything?"</p><p>"Anything at all."</p><p>I shake my head and sigh. And there are tons of questions I nearly ask, things I want to know about him. There are so many ways I want us to be closer even though I still crave safe distance as well. The question I finally ask, one that sounds as frustrated as I feel, is, "Why do you need to know everything?"</p><p>He shakes water off his hands and holds the edge of the stainless steel sink. His glance is a bit more timid now, and his voice meeker when he replies, "I...I just want to help you."</p><p>At that, I huff sarcastically, "Oh thank you, <em> Father</em>—," but a group comes in and waits at the counter, and I'm not sure I want to have to explain to all of them why I'm throwing my dishwasher out of here. </p><p>I really consider leaving the café at once, but I don my best pleasant tone and take their orders. I don't look at him at all, refusing to turn in his direction. <em>What am I supposed to do with him? </em></p><p>I finish the orders, pleased they don't plan to stay here to finish, and when I turn back toward the sink to try to figure out what to do, he's not there. Instead of relief, I feel this painfully deep disappointment, which only adds more confusion to the pot of things I'm feeling right now. </p><p>There's a moment or two where I start to wonder why I was so revolted by his inquisitiveness, why I'm prepared to run from him just as I had a few nights earlier. Then I see him coming in from the tables outside. He's carrying a few dishes and a bottle of cleaner as Joe follows him, chatting away rapidly although it's not Wednesday.</p><p>The Priest looks right at me like he's gently arguing that I shouldn't push him away, although he doesn't utter a single audible word. Claire calls again, and we share a brief exchange where she tells me when my appointment with her lawyer is, and I argue once again that it's 'utter bullshit' and she knows it is, but I suppose it doesn't matter what she knows because Martin's a fucking bastard and he's the one doing this.</p><p>When I hang up, The Priest silences Joe so politely that Joe doesn't even know he's being silenced. The Priest puts a hand on Joe's shoulder and says something in that close, personal way he uses that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world he wants to talk to. <em> God, I love that feeling as much as I can't stand it. </em></p><p>The Priest comes back to me, clearly having heard some of the call.</p><p>I shake my head, trying to feel annoyed at him, but I say with a tone that makes it seem like The Priest has coerced this confession, "Martin's pressing charges, alright?"  </p><p>He nods, waits, listens. I suppose he already figured that out after listening to my angry rant into the phone. </p><p>"Claire's taking me to see some lawyer she knows in a couple days, but..." I don't know how to finish that thought. </p><p>I lock the door, leaving only myself and The Priest inside rather than ousting him. We sneak out the back for a cigarette, and he's quieter than usual. I think he's worried I'll run off again. </p><p>"Talking to a lawyer in a few days is...good," he tentatively says.</p><p>"Yea."</p><p>"But you know what's even better?" He waits a beat, then says, "Talking to one right now. A very good one."</p><p>"What, you a lawyer, too?" I joke.</p><p>"No. But I know one. She'll be able to give advice. Can't hurt to talk, can it?"</p><p>I pause and consider this, and he says, "Is it that awful if I want to do something to help you? Not because of my calling. Just...as a friend."</p><p>"Why are you so interested in helping me?" I ask, facing him.</p><p>"Because," he shakes his head, arguing with himself or God or both. "I like you. I like...doing things with you."</p><p>"I like you," I admit, stepping just a bit closer to him.</p><p>For a moment, I forget about the whole mess I'm in. I have a flash-fantasy of the two of us in the back of the café. I'm pretty sure having sex with him would be a fantastic distraction from everything else. </p><p>He shakes his head, steps back and turns a quarter turn away. He glances at me, still shaking his head 'no' while he says, "Not like that."</p><p>"Like what?" I play innocent, but he's not fooled. </p><p>He pauses. I think he might change his mind. "What I <em> want </em> to do...and what I actually <em> do</em>...are not always the same thing."</p><p>"Maybe they should be."</p><p>He chuckles, starts bobbing his head nervously as he ponders this.</p><p>"Well, tell me what you want to do, and together we can figure out whether you should actually go through with it," I tempt. <em> Yea, I'm flirting rather than facing any of the things I should be worried about. </em></p><p>I can see in his eyes exactly what he wants. It's bad, at least according to him, and I fucking love that. I love the desires that still exist in his thoughts in spite of vows and black cloth.</p><p>He mentions, "You're facing the prospect of prison...and you'd rather talk about sex?" I think he means it to try to help me focus, but his voice is full of amusement rather than condemnation. </p><p>"Hmm…" I consider for a moment, scrunching my face and closing one eye as I pretend to really churn on that question. "Absolutely! Although, if given the choice, I prefer having sex to talking about it. But..."</p><p>"Okay," he allows. "You really want to know what I want?"</p><p>"Yes, please."</p><p>He leans toward me only the slightest, and excitement swims in my head and tingles over my skin like a massive hum, and then he says, "I want you...to talk to my lawyer straight away."</p><p>"What?" I blurt, listening to him laugh.</p><p>His voice is bright, full of optimism. "I'm serious. Let me call one, okay? I've finally found someone who's fun to be with, someone who doesn't just see me as their priest—"</p><p><em> —Oh, he's definitely 'My Priest'</em>—</p><p>"—my first real friend since I've been assigned to this parish. We can't smoke and drink during prison visitation day. And...I enjoy your attempts to lead me to temptation. Keeps me sharp."</p><p>"Is it working?"</p><p>"No. Never," he laughs. "It will never happen."</p><p>
  <em> It will absolutely happen. </em>
</p><p>"Don't disappear," he argues. He reaches out and takes my wrist, and I can't help but stare at it for a moment. </p><p>"I'm...I'm not."</p><p>"You did."</p><p>"I'm right here."</p><p>"Okay." He doesn't believe me.</p><p>"Fine. Call your lawyer."</p><p>He uses my phone, dials and waits. When I hear the voice answer on the other end, The Priest says, "Mum, hi," his eyes darting over to me for a moment. There is nothing particularly warm or friendly in the words that they share, but he talks to her for a moment. He explains that he has a friend who needs help. He tells her in a way that sounds like a demand, "I really need you to do this one thing."</p><p>Covering the phone so she can't hear, he holds it out to me and says, "Tell her everything, okay?"</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>"She's really fucking good at what she does," he nods his certainty. "I'll be back in a little bit."</p><p>Suddenly I'm standing there in the back alley behind the café, talking to the mother of The Priest I want to fuck about the man I assaulted while celebrating my father's engagement to my Godmother. I shove an empty crate out with the tip of my trainer and take a seat. </p><hr/><p>The Priest goes to find the right whiskey. He doesn't care if it's a little expensive...what else does he have to spend his stipend on? </p><p>He really isn't one for often calling home. There isn't much good to come from that. But his Mum has helped others out of situations she should have had the decency not to be involved in, so she can help with this one thing. She can help someone who really deserves it. </p><p>As he looks through the shelves of glass bottles, scanning, he finds what he wants. Or at least what he wants to drink. </p><p>There's no way to deny the fluttery feelings and obvious twinges he feels almost every time he's with his Friend. It's not that he's denying his attraction for her. There's no point in trying to ignore that. It exists. It's powerful. Obvious. He just needs to direct that energy in that right way. After all, he likes her, is fascinated by her, in many kinds of ways beyond the physical. </p><p>When he walks back down the alley toward her café with the weighty bottle in hand, he sees her, seated on a crate that isn't high enough for her long legs to comfortably hang. Her back is leaning against the wall behind her. Although her eyes are closed, she's facing up toward the sky. He wonders if she's praying as he worries that maybe his suggestion wasn't much of a help at all, and she's turned to last resorts.</p><p>He comes close, clearing his throat to warn her of his approach. "Hello," he announces, finding another empty crate and taking a seat next to her. He cracks open the seal on the drink and hands her the bottle.</p><p>She sits up, looking like she's about to stand, and offers, "I'll grab some cups."</p><p>Patting his hand on her knee to tell her to remain, he says, "Something about drinking in an alley clearly dictates having it straight from the bottle."</p><p>She laughs and studies him, and he gets lost in the tenderness in her eyes. Maybe she feels more attraction to him than merely a sexual one, too. Selfishly, he hopes so, even though nothing can come of that. Then he feels guilty for hoping she might want something she can never have. He shouldn't encourage it. </p><p>His hand seems to want to remain on her knee, and once he realizes that, he immediately pulls back. In his thoughts, he hears the moan that came from her in the fantasy he had that still hasn't left his mind for more than a few seconds since it appeared. In his head, the sound of her is crystal clear, deeply arousing, and he tries to shake it off. But he keeps leaning toward the very temptation he knows he should avoid. He takes a big slug of their drink in the hopes of dulling the sound and sensation that's still resonating. </p><p>Holding the bottle out for her, he gestures for her to have some. She takes it, and their fingers brush and linger for a second. He orders himself not to think of those fingers on him, but he 'feels' them anyway, splayed and moving down his chest, so he says too loudly, "How was the call?"</p><p>She looks startled at the volume of his inquiry, gives him a curious stare, then says, "She's amazing. Calm, professional, articulate. And then just absolutely..." She searches for the word.</p><p>"Clever? Devious? Shrewd?" he suggests.</p><p>"Yea. I mean...wow."</p><p>"She's very talented."</p><p>"She set everything up. An associate of hers here in London is going to help with things if I need someone in person, but I think your mother's pretty much got it handled."</p><p>"Good."</p><p>"I mean...somehow, she convinced me that if anyone is going to prison, it'll be Martin."</p><p>"Sounds about right." He chuckles, then reads her face for several seconds before he asks, "Feel better?"</p><p>"Much." She holds a long look, too, and he doesn't know what's to come. He notes the rise of hope he knows he shouldn't feel. Finally she says, "Thanks."</p><p>"Don't mention it. She owes me, and I don't get into enough trouble on my own to call in the favor."</p><p>"Oh, well...glad I could help."</p><p>They sit out in the alley until he sees a fox scavenging through a rubbish bin, and he practically runs behind her as she giggles heartily before she leads them back into the café.</p><hr/><p>I haven't sat in the café until late in the night, drinking and laughing for hours on end with anyone since Boo. <em> I'll bet he's fun when he's high. Wonder if he still does things like that? </em></p><p>Having fun with him here makes me feel less lonely and miss her even more all at the same time. </p><p>We snack on food here at the café using the excuse that he's sampling things for tomorrow's little seminar in the church basement, but mostly I think we're just drinking and eating because we enjoy the company. The laughter we're sharing isn't the result of alcohol.</p><p>Our closeness ebbs and flows. He wants to steer the conversation, moving from light and un-intrusive topics to those 'getting to know you' sorts of questions that I know he really wants to ask. But he backs off whenever I begin to resist his questions, at least for a little while. </p><p>We keep this subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) flirtation alive, it's constantly between and around us like staticky electrical currents. I lean close on the table, my chin in my hand, smiling in a way that I know does not mask my interest in him. We hold long stares and find all sorts of little reasons to share casual or inadvertent touches. And those close moments always build until we're on the verge of snapping, to where we cannot take it anymore, so we must ease up. The tension inevitably crescendos back to that near-breaking point again.</p><p>These late sorts of nights seem to be becoming a habit for us. He stands after we've been talking for hours, long after most people would have exhausted their conversation. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my stomach muscles a little sore from laughing. He reaches toward me slightly when I stand as well. It's one of those moments that could be an arm touch, or a handshake, or a hug, or a kiss on the cheek. </p><p>But our arms are awkward and uncertain between us, and we sort of end up hugging, but I think his original intention was a handshake or a pat on the arm, but he's hugged me because he thinks I wanted to hug him when really neither of us had any clue what we were doing in the first place. One way or another, we've ended up in a loose-armed but very close embrace. <em> His arms. </em></p><p>His hand is on my back, just below the shoulder blades, but I move closer like he's pressing me to him even though he isn't. We give into the hug, and it feels so nice (reminding me it's been ages since I've really been touched). I try desperately to avoid allowing my hands to roam all over his body, but I want to do that more than I care to admit right now. His shoulders and arms are just fucking beautiful, his neck is right near my lips. I sigh before I can stop myself, a little light sound at the end of my exhale emerges. I lean back only a little, and we're close, right there, looking at each other. I'm not sure if his eyes are dropping to my lips, or just falling down my face to look away. I think (hope) it's the former.</p><p>He backs up and quickly creates distance. "Well!" he says far too cheerily to be casual, "better be going," he's already at the door, trying to pull it open even though it's locked.</p><p>"You just have to…" I demonstrante with gestures that the door needs to be unlocked.</p><p>"Right!" he again replies much too loudly.</p><p>He's out the door now, already closing it behind him when I say, "Goodbye."</p><p>The door pops partway open again, and he leans in and adds, "Bye, right! See you tomorrow. In the evening. Six?"</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>"Good, that's great."</p><p>The door is nearly shut again when I say, "Thanks for the legal help."</p><p>His speedy retreat slows, and he looks right back at me and says, "Any time." He stares down the street, then at me once more, and finally says, "I'm off. I had fun today. Present legal trouble aside."</p><p>"Me too."</p><p>Once he's gone, I grin into the empty café.</p><p>I can't stop thinking about him the whole way back to my flat, about everything from our time together.  I remember his laugh and smile, the expressiveness of his eyes, his beauty. And I absolutely fixate on that hug, and everything about the way it felt even though it was just a hug that seemed like it wasn't even supposed to happen but somehow did. I wonder what it would have been like if his arms had tightened instead of letting go when we'd embraced, his palms sliding over my hips, his lips coming closer to mine. <em> Whew. </em></p><p>Finally at home, I hurry inside, locking the door behind me, dropping my bag on the floor and leaning against the wall. My hand shoves into my jeans, diving straight between my thighs. I sigh from the sense of relief, just to have something pressing against the desperate, aching need that's grown in me. </p><p>My fingers slide over my sex as my breath grows faster, and my body pleads with me not to wait any longer. I circle my clit, bypassing any attempt to make this last. I really just need to fucking cum. I need to release the tension The Priest created within me. </p><p>I have a beautifully sacrilegious thought of dropping to my knees, and sucking his cock right there in that little room off the main church. I think of the way his groans might echo through the building. I imagine his desire for me overcoming his hesitation as his careful resistance melts away in my mouth.</p><p>He's the kind of person who'd reciprocate. Of that I have no doubt. </p><p>As my fingers pick up speed, my other hand braces on the door to keep me upright. I consider sliding down onto the floor, but I don't want to waste a second repositioning. </p><p>My thoughts return immediately to The Priest and my fantasy, and how he might push me up onto the anteroom table, holy books and papers and churchy props all ignored. I can see myself, perched there, bare-arsed, hands braced behind me. He sits before me on one of those ornately carved wooden chairs, positioned between my legs. I swear I can feel the heat of his mouth and the rapid flick of his tongue on my clit. When I imagine his hand joining in, anticipating the sensation of his fingers as they push into me, that pulse within intensifies into an orgasm that leaves me breathless and wobbly-kneed. </p><p>His image stays with me even after I cum. I turn, my forehead resting on the wall, my hand pressed against the graually receding pulses from my core. <em> Jesus. </em> Even though the fantasy should be over, having served its purpose, I still picture him. He stands from that chair, my legs parted and allowing him near as my arms surround his shoulders. Looking at me with the utmost adoration, he appears to be on the verge of confessing something I want to hear too desperately, so I quite intentionally pull myself away from these thoughts. </p><p><em> Fuck. I </em> really <em> like him. </em></p><p>Uncertain what to do with that realization, I think instead about how I couldn't make it any further than right inside my door. I couldn't wait another moment. I didn't go to my bed, or my tub, or a chair. I finally shrug out of my coat and hang it, wondering if I really can smell him on my clothes from that brief hug or if it's all in my mind. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> <strong>A/N-So s</strong></em> <em><b>orry I haven't responded to your comments individually, but thank you all so much for comments and likes. It's been really hectic but I appreciate all of you wonderful readers out there! Thank you! Finally, here's the next part.</b> </em></p><hr/><p>I suppose I'm in a good mood, good enough for a patron to notice. I've been going back and forth between preparing items for The Priest's meeting and taking care of things at the café. But this woman asks about my pleasantness. I've seen her in here before. So I tell her about the little gig I've been hired for this evening, and she's fascinated enough to ask questions about the whens and wheres of it all. Overall, I suspect she's just making polite conversation.</p><p>A few hours later, I'm in the basement of the church, smiling at The Priest as he slides chairs into a circle rather than the nice even rows they were in when I'd first arrived. I wonder if his excitement really is solely about this un-Bible study, or if any little speck of it has to do with me.</p><p>Just as people begin to filter in, the woman from the café approaches, dressed in black much like The Priest. "Hello!" she says cheerily.</p><p>"Hi there…" <em> What do you call a female priest? </em> "...Mother?"</p><p>She laughs rather fully, and says, "Please, call me Ann."</p><p>"Sure," I reply as she introduces her husband, a handsome, towering tree of a man.</p><p>The Priest hurries over to join, and Ann says, "Your friend here recruited us to come this evening."</p><p>He looks at me with intrigued excitement, "You did?"</p><p>"Sort of," I reply.</p><p>"She looked so excited about coming this evening that I had to see what it's all about!" Ann explains.</p><p>"Really?" he asks, regarding me with a little bit of a cocky smirk. "Good to know." He seems stuck in the stare until he remembers what he's doing here, "We should get started."</p><p>The turnout isn't exactly overwhelming. There are eight people besides myself and The Priest, and one is a particularly sour looking man who repeatedly states that he thinks it's wrong to discuss these books deemed unsuitable for the actual Bible, that looking at them is bordering on sacrilege. When he comes up to get a snack, I consider asking him why he's come if he finds the topic so ungodly, but when he takes a bite of some dessert, the treat makes him immediately a little less grouchy. He lifts the last bite up like a toast to good food.</p><p>As far as the rest of the crowd, The Priest's excitement for all things churchy seems to transfer to them, and soon the chatter is more spirited.</p><p>As they wrap up their little discussion, I realize I really haven't heard anything of what they've said, having spent the time instead watching him and letting my active mind run wild. </p><p>"I like the energy you bring to this parish," Ann says as she walks with him over to my tables. "Such vitality."</p><p>"Thank you," The Priest replies with sincerity.</p><p>"I was raised Catholic," she says.</p><p>"Why'd you leave?" he asks with worry, like he's responsible for keeping people here.</p><p>She points to the collar. "I had a calling I couldn't satisfy as a Catholic."</p><p>He winces, realizing the error of his question, "Sorry."</p><p>"That's okay. It's so good to see priests like you, engaging the congregation." She turns to me and asks, "Do you provide services for Anglicans as well?"</p><p>I laugh, "I don't discriminate."</p><p>"You can't have her," The Priest dashes to my side, putting an arm around me and placing his hand on the shoulder farthest from him. I look down at it. "She's mine."</p><p>Everyone laughs. <em> I like the sound of that. </em></p><p>"We haven't had a chance to do our pitch," Towering Husband argues. "Our church is kind of like Catholicism's younger, funner, more understanding cousin!"</p><p>The Priest laughs fully, his hand tight on my arm as it slides down and eventually leaves. He folds his hands in front of him and turns to me, "I can't speak for the whole of Catholicism, just for myself. I don't mind that you're an atheist, in fact, I love that you question every fucking word that comes out of my mouth. But I hope you'll stick around. For G&amp;Ts and damn good whiskey, if nothing else."</p><p>I stare at him, unable to do much else. I'm suddenly aware of Ann and her husband, and the way they're watching us with keen fascination. The Priest steps back and says, "I really can't thank you enough, yet again, for coming to help me."</p><p>"It was fun," I reply, and like we can't resist, our eyes are magnetted back together. </p><p>Ann and Towering Husband exchange looks, and she says, "We're going to hear a band and get a drink. You two care to join?"</p><p>The Priest seems sort of shocked at being invited out. <em> I don't understand why he isn't constantly invited to go nearly everywhere with everyone. He's rather hard to resist. </em>He says to me, "I'll go if you will."</p><p>"Why not?" I begin, but see my containers and leftover food, and I don't want to carry those along wherever we go.</p><p>"You can leave your things in the rectory. I have to stop there anyway."</p><p>We agree to meet at the venue as The Priest carries most of my containers and leads me to his home. He leaves me in the kitchen while he hurries off to change shirts. It's sort of like being allowed in a secret lair unguarded, so I peek through the cupboards. </p><p>When he emerges, I think of how normal he looks, just like the night I met him. <em> Sometimes I can forget he's a priest. I wonder if he can, too? </em>                </p><p>We meet up with the others at a nice (although surprisingly secular) place, the band loud and the crowd thick. We end up in a booth that's really probably made for two, but we double up and The Priest and I share one little bench opposite the other pair. </p><p>His hands rest on his legs under the table once we sit. I imagine his grasp letting go of his own knee and drifting over to mine. "Have enough room?" he asks politely. </p><p><em> Too much, really. </em> "I'm fine. You?"</p><p>He nods and turns to our newly found friends, and there's never a shortage of conversation after that. </p><p>We sit for hours, more drinks ordered and consumed. The careful posture he kept at first to maintain some space between us relaxes, and our legs drift together until they're almost always touching. As time passes and he grows more comfortable with this closeness, the lack of resistance feels somehow very intimate, like we've reached a certain level of comfort with each other.</p><p>Some topics naturally move toward subjects of faith, but many, much to my relief, are not. </p><p>We hear a little anecdote about how the couple across from us met, and the sort of back and forth of their relationship until their eventual engagement. It's probably a really great story, judging by the way The Priest nods and smiles and chuckles at the right moments. He seems genuinely interested. I mirror his expressions because I'm not listening too well. I'm completely distracted by him, by our closeness, by the way my shoulder is practically against his chest since he hooked his elbow on the seat back behind us. </p><p>"Shall I tell it? Or you?" The Priest suddenly asks me.</p><p>"What?" I reply.</p><p>He smiles, waiting expectantly, his eyes pouring over my face. He nods toward the people across from us, and Ann says, "If you're not involved in the church, how did you two meet? Old school friends?"</p><p>"Oh," I giggle more shyly than I wish I did, and shake my head, "Met quite recently, really. He's doing my Dad and Godmother's wedding, so we met at a dinner to celebrate the occasion."</p><p>"Oh," Ann nods. It's a boring story, so far.</p><p>Feeling like I'm amongst people who will appreciate the truth of this, I add flippantly, "But I ended up punching my sister's husband in the face, accidently whacked his eye," I nod to The Priest, "and got hit in the nose myself. Then he offered to take me to a doctor, but I made him take me for drinks instead."</p><p>"You're joking," Towering Husband asks, clearly hoping I'm not joking at all.</p><p>"She's not," The Priest responds, looking at me, grinning and leaning toward me in a bit of a reassuring way. </p><p>The couple beyond us erupts in laughter and the conversation returns to its faster pace.</p><p>I'm enjoying myself very much, and as the hour grows late, and we all know the outing is coming to an end, I wince at the thought that this feeling of the two of us together is just temporary, situational. I'm going to miss these moments where our closeness is accepted and allowed.</p><p>A short while later, we're standing outside in the cool night air, and Towering Husband says, "It's so hard to find fun couples to go out with—"</p><p>Ann elbows him hard.</p><p>"I mean, other people," he corrects. "A pair."</p><p>"Sure," The Priest reacts oddly, which at first I take as offense to the suggestion that we're coupled, and then I think is more because he's sad that we're not. <em> Maybe he likes to pretend he's an ordinary person sometimes.  </em></p><p>"Sorry."</p><p>"Don't be!" The Priest counters in a carefree, jovial tone like the words have already been forgotten. </p><p>"Companions come in many forms," Ann appropriately says. "Listen, we're going to a show for someone in our congregation tomorrow night."</p><p>"How nice!" My Priest affirms, probably grateful for the change in topic.</p><p>"Oh, no. It's going to be awful," she responds. "A terribly pretentious art show for a coddled young man with piles of confidence and snobbery and not an ounce of kindness or humility. Or talent, in truth."</p><p>
  <em> I really like her. She's attractive, too. God, I hope I'm not developing a sort of thing for the holy. </em>
</p><p>The Priest rocks closer, still standing nearly in contact with me. It really wouldn't be a leap for anyone who's seen us tonight to assume there's something romantic going on. </p><p>"His parents are generous donors," Towering Husband begins.</p><p>"And active members who are always willing to lend a hand," Ann corrects with a little scowl in her husband's direction. "I feel obligated to go."</p><p>"Yea," The Priest seems to understand this kind of circumstance well.</p><p>"Anyway," Ann continues as the laughter lessens, "it would be so much more fun if we went together. Plenty of prime people-watching and free drinks."</p><p>"Whatchoo think?" The Priest asks me.</p><p>"I could go," I reply, heart absolutely fluttering at the thought of another evening out with him, especially in such non-churchy circumstances. </p><p>"I have a meeting, but I can join as soon as that wraps up."</p><p>"Cool," I answer immediately.</p><p>"Great!" Ann replies.</p><hr/><p>Once the others have gone home, The Priest takes his Friend back to the rectory to get her things from the kitchen. </p><p>As she stands in the doorway with her arms full of containers, he feels oddly like he's struggling to find the right words. "I could come by and get you after my meeting tomorrow. We could go over to the art thing together."</p><p>"Sure," she responds with a blushy smile.</p><p>"Think it's going to be that bad?"</p><p>"Oh, I've survived the wall of penises. I'm ready for anything."</p><p>"What?" he's so baffled, both wanting to know and not wanting to know.</p><p>She seems like she might leave him to wonder, but she says, "Part of my Godmother's sexibition."</p><p>"Right!" He feels satisfied with the answer, and then asks as his hand forms a rainbow ark in the sky, "An entire wall?"</p><p>"Oh yea. It's staggering the number of men she's included. So be careful if she asks you to sit for her, you might end up with a plaster version of your 'likeness' hanging out in a sea of cocks on a wall one day."</p><p>His shoulders shake as he laughs. "I'll have to pass. I've already had one made, and don't want them just running around all over the place," he jokes.</p><p>"Hope God doesn't toss that down the wall."</p><p>"I wouldn't trust the walls. Safer as a nice bedside decoration between my crucifix and my rosary."</p><p>She laughs so fully, but so quietly, her cheeks bright and ruddy, her eyes flirty. The look gives him a shiver. When she catches her breath, she says, "Can I borrow that?"</p><p>He folds his arms, trying to stifle a chuckle, and says, "No." Then, entirely against his better judgment, he adds, "I think I'd feel envious of it..." It was a joke, clearly. Probably. </p><p>The tension reaches that horribly uncomfortable level, and they both say, "Well—" loudly enough to announce a changing of topic and the inevitable hour of parting. </p><p>"Tomorrow then?" he asks.</p><p>"Tomorrow."</p><p>They wait there a moment, and then he experiences this horrible feeling of flatness, that an evening that's built to this point will end with pleasant words of goodbye and nothing more. It's all kind of anticlimactic.</p><p>She steps away after they hear Pam upstairs, and he loudly whispers, "You want me to help you home with all that?" He reaches for his jacket, already intent on joining.</p><p>"Oh, no. I'm fine," she replies.</p><p>"Are you sure? Because I don't mind—"</p><p>"I've got it." She meets his eyes, tilts her head a little and says, "'Night then."</p><p>He's not sure why that look stops his heart for a moment, and then sends it pounding. She only said goodnight.</p><p>When he closes the door, the silence he loves is now deafening. Painful. He hears Pam walking on the floorboards above, but even that feels lonely. The solitude of the night crashes forward as he remembers the cozy way they sat together earlier in the evening. </p><p>It's not the lack of company in general that he misses. No, it's her, specifically. </p><p>While he's so often questioning and re-questioning his faith, this is the first time he feels certain he's made a really terrible mistake. And, no, he doesn't mean spending time with her. </p><p>What if he'd met her before he was ordained?  What if he'd known someone he felt such a fast connection with before he became a priest? </p><p>He tells himself he's really fucking lucky to be a priest, and silenty chastises himself for the momentary doubt. But he can't completely dismiss the emptiness he feels as he thinks of the couple across from them who were able to enjoy an evening out and later go home together without an ounce of guilt or regret. </p><p>But that will never be him. Never feels like a very long time.</p><p>That woman, Ann, seemed devoted to God and her congregation. Was she somehow less a servant of God for also having a husband? He wonders what it would be like to have the freedom to look at his Friend and just say, "Stay," without it being a massive slap in the face of God and a mortal sin on his part. </p><p>His eyes close, and he imagines what it would have felt like if he'd leaned in and kissed her, just once. Just a kiss. No real harm in that. Is it even really against the rules? </p><p>These thoughts make him feel terribly selfish. </p><p>The Priest focuses on all of the good works he intends to do, seeing this evening as proof that he definitely has all of this well under control rather than noting any cause for concern. Sure there are, and always will be, questions and moments of doubt, but he's devoted. </p><p>As his fellow cleric said, "Companions come in many forms," and this is true. He has, in his own way, a companion. For now. The truth is that he thinks she'll eventually grow bored of him and his lifestyle, and she'll stop coming around. He imagines when that happens, as it inevitably will, he'll feel both relieved and crushed.</p><hr/><p>The following night, The Priest has a meeting to discuss changing the types of flowers that will be used to decorate the altar during an upcoming celebration. Two of the people with opposing viewpoints at the meeting have dug in their heels and decided to fight to the bitter end to have their particular flowers chosen. A man who's offended by the very thought of any alteration to the traditional flowers used turns to The Priest and says, "Surely you won't stand to have our church desecrated in this way."</p><p>The Priest tries not to laugh, and diplomatically replies, "I don't really think that qualifies as desecration." </p><p>The other parishioner seems convinced that changing these flowers will usher in a new age of progress for the Catholic church as a whole. They're just fucking flowers. </p><p>He tries to summon enough interest to pretend like this matters to him at all one way or another. He's on the verge of saying <em> do you really think God gives a damn what kind of flowers are used, because I truly don't give a fuck, so figure it out for yourselves. </em></p><p>He takes a breath. This stupid meeting is the only thing between him and the place he'd really like to be. Finally he brokers a compromise, although both parties only acknowledge the concessions they must make, and both are very disappointed rather than pleased. But The Priest clasps his hands together and says to both in a truly cheery way (because he's feeling very cheery now that he's getting out of here), "Okay, well, I have another appointment. Thank you both. I'm sure it will be absolutely stunning."</p><p>He jogs out of the church and to his rooms. Muttering, "Fucking flowers," he washes up and changes quickly, pausing by the mirror to make sure his hair has the appropriate balance of disheveled and orderly. When he's ready, he thinks of her and smiles at his reflection, traveling into memories of himself getting ready on nights like this years ago. But those nights were almost another life entirely. He tells himself this is completely different.</p><p>Hurrying to get out the door before there's another dispute, or flower or cupcake or candle emergency, he grabs his jacket and hurries out, thinking only of getting back to her.</p><hr/><p>When The Priest arrives at my door, looking adorably hurried, and asks, "You ready to go?" I fight the urge to yank him through the door, into my flat, and show him exactly how ready to go I am. But I politely slip on my coat and accompany him.</p><p>This little art party is ridiculous. Apparently the parents have the money to put on a fancy to-do with champagne and silver platters in a large space for an artist certainly not worthy of the fanfare. </p><p>None of that really matters, though. I'm here with my Priest and our new friends, drinking and returning to the same fantastic kind of conversation we'd found the night before. </p><p>He walks with me, initially shooting disapproving looks when I offer my own unapologetic yet comical critique of the art in hushed tones only he can hear. After meeting the artist, a rude little shit, who's nasty to the staff and condescending to the guests, The Priest doesn't seem to hide his enjoyment of my impolite commentary so much. </p><p>I hope to go back to the same place we went to last night to get dinner and drinks afterwards (it's really nearby), craving the closeness of being shoved into a little booth seat with my Priest right up against me. I've had more than my share of wild nights and encounters, but the thought of just sitting close to him and playing at couplehood turns me on far more than many of those wilder dates I've had. </p><p>I suggest returning there, and we do, finding that same spot. And I indulge in the conversation, learning about him even more, not just as a man of God, but as an entire human. I pick up all of the scraps about him that I can find as we brush elbows and stare from an intimate distance that would usually seem inappropriate.</p><p>The night ends, and he insists on walking me back to my flat, a suggestion I don't try to dissuade in the least. I want every fucking moment I can possibly have with him. I know he's been flirting with me, throwing back every scandalous look and powerfully simple touch. We want each other. I think even those who sat across from us knew that. <em> There's clearly something here. </em></p><p>He comes inside with me, and I invite him to have a seat and stay a bit. Looking around like he's considering a much bigger proposition than the one I made, he says, "Better head home."</p><p>"Okay." </p><p>So we stand just inside the door, less than an arm's length apart, with a big invisible God-sized wall between us.</p><p>Finally I say, "So...how do priests say goodbye at the end of a fantastic date that wasn't supposed to be a date, but feels shockingly like it was anyway?" We both know it's true, I've just decided to say it.</p><p>He softly chuckles and reaches out to shake my hand. I press my palm to his as our fingers tighten their holds. His thumb brushes over my skin, and I can't even begin to describe how hot that is, how much my body hums at just that touch. </p><p>His eyes are on my lips like he can't look away, I can feel them tingling as he ever so subtly touches his tongue to his lower lip. </p><p>"What are you thinking?" I ask, feeling the blush rise on my face at the thought of what the answer might be.</p><p>He shakes his head, finally looking away. I miss the heat of his stare until it returns, this time on my eyes. He says, "It's best if we don't even think about it."</p><p>"Don't think about what?" I laugh, feigning innocence, but he shakes his head since he doesn't buy it. Irresponsibly, I push, "A kiss?"</p><p>His mouth opens to deny it, but words fail him. </p><p>So I ask, "More than a kiss then?"</p><p>"No, nothing more," he manages to say directly and decisively, but in denying the second question so thoroughly, he all but admits to the first. </p><p>"Is that completely against the rules?"</p><p>He searches for his response for a moment, squeezing my hand one more time before he lets go, explaining, "It will only make it more difficult...you know...not to..."</p><p>"Not to what?" I play at innocence and his look shares the thoroughness of his disbelief. It's bordering on legitimate annoyance (although I'm not even sure if it's directed at me or the heavens).</p><p>"You know exactly what," he accuses. Softly, he adds, "All too easy to let things get out of control."</p><p>"It's for the best anyway," I reply like none of this is bothering me in the least.</p><p>"Good. It is?" he looks so deeply disappointed while he tries to appear relieved.</p><p>"Oh, yea. I mean...I've thought about it, about you and me."</p><p>"Have you?"</p><p>"At length, if I'm being perfectly honest. I'm sure you're above having thoughts like that."</p><p>By the way he blushes and looks away, his eyes growing a little wider, I can see plain as anything that his thoughts have at least drifted in that direction once or twice. </p><p>I sigh with acceptance, "If something were to happen between us, and we'd discover there's no real chemistry, no spark at all, I think I'd be disappointed. Perhaps it's best just to keep the fantasy safely intact." <em> No, I don't fucking mean it. </em></p><p>He replies with a rapid nod and a sort of pained expression, like the thought is very disturbing. "You really think that might happen? That there'd be no spark between us?" he manages to ask with a strained smile.</p><p>I scrunch my nose and shake my head. "Not even a little bit."</p><p>We share these sad little half-laughs.</p><p>I feel a pervasive ache just after confessing that. I think it shows, I think it's blatant, because he looks so concerned. It's probably the first time I really accept the fact that I'm thoroughly in love with someone I cannot and will not ever have even for a moment of time. He's too…<em> good. </em> We're destined to be one thing: Friends. That word sounds cruel and hateful. </p><p>I suddenly want to cry, a full mascara-streaking weep, to let out this pain I feel in me now that I've accepted this, but I'm not about to do that while he's here. I think parts of me were holding onto hope until this very moment. Now it all seems silly.</p><p>My eyes remain fixed on his, sharing this closeness, sharing this connection that remains even through the disappointment. And I don't want to fucking run from this, from him. He may really see me, hear me, know me, which is wonderful and terrifying at the same time, and it's all so fucking confusing. </p><p>I see on his face an expression that mirrors exactly what I feel: pain and loss over what cannot be. The thing that really feels truly awful about this...is the fact that he <em> wants </em> this, it's not that he doesn't. In fact, I believe he wants this very much. But he's simply not allowed, like an imaginary line was drawn between us that he chooses to heed.  </p><p>He looks away like he can't stand it for another second. "You and I...we can't…" He wants this so much, he can't even bring himself to really say it. </p><p>"You sure?" I begin, hating the reality of it, preparing an argument to tell him that it doesn't have to be that way if he'd just refuse to follow these archaic and ridiculous rules, but I freeze when his fingers touch my cheek and then do not withdraw out of caution.  </p><p>My lips part, full of renewed hope, and I wait, listening to the sound of my pulse rushing in my ears as my skin feels impossibly hot. One little corner of his mouth turns up in a reassuring smile before he comes closer. Although the kiss is gentle, it isn't hesitant, the fullness of his lips pressing against mine. The contact made could be considered relatively chaste, but the heaviness behind it is anything but. It feels like holding a lit match very close to a fuse.</p><p>It stops too quickly, but he's still close, so close, his fingers remaining against my cheek. I come forward, hoping to urge him to return, but he's momentarily trapped in reservation, so I joke, "See? Ruined it. Fucking awful in reality."</p><p>He mumbles, "Terrible," like he wants to play along with the joke, but he's too distracted to do so with any believability.</p><p>Neither of us back down, so I come closer, offering more. His fingers slide behind my neck, his other arm curling around my waist. He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head, and, this time, when his lips meet mine, it's instantly full and intense and absolutely glorious. Our mouths open, tongues meeting, hands groping in a somewhat desperate flurry of contact. We have to learn to breathe together, cooperatively in moments in between. His arms wrap around me and pull my body flush against his as I hold his head so he knows I've no desire to end it now. I feel the vibration of a moan he cannot stifle as my hips press to his. </p><p>Now that we've started, I'm certain we can't stop, not here, not now, not until we're sated and spent. </p><p>We're breathless and pawing, fighting for closeness, as his hands press down my back in a way that crushes my body to his. </p><p>We're gonna have sex. I know it. </p><p>He tugs at the back of my top. I cannot wait to get him out of his clothes. I step forward, pushing him toward the wall and reaching for his belt as he pants heavily against me. But something stops him.</p><p>His mouth leaves mine, our foreheads pressed together as he shakes his head. He takes my hands, covering them with his own and pressing them tightly against his chest. I can sense the intensity of his feelings for me and the struggle he's experiencing by the way he holds me in place.</p><p>"I can't...I can't do this," he says, full of regret and frustration. </p><p>I try to smile. I want to tell him how unnecessary and pointless this is, how stupid it is to deny what clearly should happen between us. The words don't come, as much as I wish they would, not because I fear God or the price of honesty, but just because I fucking love him so much that I don't want to add pain to what he's feeling right now. And he is feeling pain.</p><p>"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" he mutters, the words trail off, but he's either still whispering them or I can hear the echoes. Our mouths draw closer again, and he leans in, still holding me tightly, and says "I need to go, I need..."</p><p>I know exactly what he needs, but he won't accept it. </p><p>"Okay," I answer gently.</p><p>He takes my forearms and steps me back to build space between us, although he's pained to do so. He explains, "I hope you know...how much I wish things could be different." He shakes his head and puts his hand on the latch to leave. The door cracks open. </p><p>"But it <em> could </em> be different," I try.</p><p>He shoves the door shut and comes back like a passionate force to be reckoned with as our mouths hungrily find each other again. I'm pressed hard to the wall, the lengths of our bodies smashed together. The intensity of the interaction burns hot but fast and then stops with sudden abruptness. His lips stay near mine, his hand still at the back of my head, and he says, "What we are...is all we can be. I don't have any more I can offer you. And you deserve more." </p><p>Much to his obvious surprise (and perhaps even my own), I answer, "I don't want that."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Maybe I don't want the 'more' you think I deserve." I sound really frustrated. Calmly I add, "Can't we just be...whatever it is we <em> can </em> be." </p><p>His eyes narrow with questions as he steps away yet again. I don't think that was the response he was expecting.  The frustration and disappointment I feel pale in comparison to the other feelings I have about him...the ones that make me want to keep him around.</p><p>He nods. For a second, I think he won't be able to make himself leave. I watch him clench his jaw and curl his fingers into fists. After one sharply forced exhale, he smiles, still conflicted, letting himself out. "G'night." </p><p>"Goodnight," I reply, soaking in the lingering stare he offers before the door shuts behind him, and he's gone from sight.</p><p>I don't know how long I remain there and stare at the door, but I'm pretty certain this will be the second time I make myself orgasm while standing just inside my door thanks to him. </p><p>I wonder if he nodded to acknowledge he heard me, or if he agrees we <em> should </em> be whatever we can be. I wonder exactly what it is that we can be. I wonder if I'll see him again, or if he'll hide from me until that godawful fucking wedding.</p><p>I know the futility of all this, the sheer improbability of anything sustainable or healthy between us. It's as hopeless as trying to hang out on the second story while the floor below is on fire and slowly smoldering away. We can't stay here forever, but I don't even want to escape. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> A/N--Thank you all so much for your continued kindness and for reading. I know this one has been slow but steady. And I realize it really is a slow burn (perhaps too slow), but we're getting somewhere. ;)  Anyway, wishing you all the best and sending so much appreciation.   </em>
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<p>Two days pass without a word from him. Well, technically it's just one day and a few more hours, but it feels like forever. And I have so many questions. </p>
<p>I have to go with Claire to see Godmother for the second sitting for that ghastly portrait that I'm sure I'll somehow have to stare at every time I'm at their house for the rest of my life. Spite will keep Godmother alive longer than all the rest of us. </p>
<p>
  <em> Would it be awful if I stopped by the church instead? </em>
</p>
<p>Claire walks up to the door with me, so now it feels like it's too late to run away. When we go inside, I find a Priest drinking tea with Dad and Godmother. <em> This can't be good. </em></p>
<p>"Father, don't let me keep you. You said you really had to be going," Godmother comments like she doesn't want us to be around each other.</p>
<p>"Right. I should be off," he says, standing, staring at me and forcing himself to look away so awkwardly that it almost seems mechanical. He bids goodbye to everyone, then looks at me and says, "Could I have a very quick word?"</p>
<p>I see Godmother's horrified expression. She's barely seen us together and already hates the closeness we shared at that dinner.<em> If she only knew. </em></p>
<p>"It's for the wedding," he explains with a hint of a stammer. "Sort of like to keep some things a surprise for the couple."</p>
<p>"Of course," Dad bobs his head in compliance.</p>
<p>"Yes, yes of course. How nice," Godmother says, oozing fake approval through a forced and toothy smile.</p>
<p>I walk out with him, grab a cig and offer him one as well that he takes immediately. I steel myself for the breakup speech that will end the best relationship I've ever had that wasn't ever even a fucking relationship to start with. Then I'm going to have to sit on Godmother's bench and smile with the back of my head.</p>
<p>But he whispers, "Hi," with timid flirtation that truly surprises me.</p>
<p>"Hi," I whisper back, sharing similar shy, flirty glances. Yea, this doesn't look like a man about to end whatever it is that we've started.</p>
<p>"Sorry, yesterday was just," he scoffs at the difficulties he'd faced, "utter chaos. Baby born early, not good, did an emergency baptism just in case. Met with a donor whose money comes with more strings than benefits. Had a meeting with other priests in the diocese to discuss changes coming forward, and of course there were the arguments about flowers, <em> fucking flowers</em>, again! It's ridiculous."</p>
<p>"What sorts of changes in the diocese?" I ask with hope I know I shouldn't have, bypassing the other things he's mentioned.</p>
<p>He smirks, but sadly. "Not those kinds of changes." </p>
<p>With a sigh like his shoulders weigh a ton, he adds, "It was about hymnals. Just hymnals. Apparently changing songbooks or decorating with new flowers is far too radical. I really try to care...try to find the theological significance in these things, but it's all just dressing. I wish they could focus on what's important instead of which fucking flowers go in front of the altar."</p>
<p>"Sounds like they're <em> really </em> serious about fucking flowers!" I say with a laugh.</p>
<p>My laugh makes him smile. "I truly...do not understand."</p>
<p>He looks so tired. "You okay?" I ask.</p>
<p>"Of course."</p>
<p>"You know...you can say so if you were just avoiding me. I can handle it."</p>
<p>"I wasn't!" he's fiercely adamant until his certainty cracks. "Maybe a little," he confesses with regret. "I don't know...what to do about…"</p>
<p>"Who says you have to have all the answers today?"</p>
<p>He smiles, the kind that fills me with renewed hope and epic horniness.</p>
<p>"Care to help me with something? For the wedding?" he asks, honing his focus.</p>
<p>I glance back at the house because I hate the wedding, but I definitely don't hate him, so I say, "Sure," before I even know what sort of help I'm providing.</p>
<p>"Great. Let me know when you're done being immortalized, and we'll meet here." He digs in his pocket for a paper with the address already on it.  This makes me think he intended to run into me here at Dad's all along. I enjoy the premeditation of the gesture. </p>
<p>He finishes off his cigarette, then looks at me and back out ahead of him a few times. He's conflicted, but I seem to do that to him a lot. There's a second, though, where I think he's going to kiss me goodbye. I wonder if Godmother is watching from some perch. </p>
<p>He snaps out of his conflict so suddenly I wonder if his God pinched him. The Priest reaches out, taps my hand and says, "I'll see you later."</p>
<p>"Yea."</p>
<p>And with not one but three looks back at me, he's gone. There's something about being around him that makes me feel more alive than I do with anyone else in the world.</p>
<p>Suddenly the day doesn't feel all that fucking bad. Godmother is already irritated, sparing no shots at me as I sit, and nothing she says or does really bothers me in the least.</p>
<hr/>
<p>I meet him at a little holy costume shop where I watch him try on various dresses for the wedding. The whole thing is so tantalizing, imagining him behind the curtains. I wonder what he'd do if I slipped in with him. I want to so badly that I clasp my hands down on the seat below me so I won't do it. And I swear he wants me to, too, or would if the shopkeeper didn't keep peeking in like a mobile gargoyle ready to deliver God's wrath. </p>
<p>We part that day without any touch beyond a hand on my wrist or my arm, and even those are so charged they feel like foreplay.</p>
<p>The next day I stroll into the church to find him, knowing he hears confessions during this time almost every day. Ann and her husband have invited us out again, this time to their home, and while I could just call The Priest, I prefer to see him in person to deliver the invitation. </p>
<p>I stand near the stark wood confession chamber and wait for him. He's supposed to be done shortly, but I don't see or hear anyone here. The door to the confessional opens abruptly, and he grins and blushes instantaneously upon seeing me. "Hi!" he says, like seeing me standing here is a thoroughly joyous surprise. </p>
<p>He quickly scans the church for anyone else as I say, "Hey, I stopped by to–" but halt quickly when he takes my elbow and pulls me into the tiny booth before he shuts the door. </p>
<p>There's not even enough room for us to pretend we're separated by a safe distance. </p>
<p>"Can't stop thinking about you," he confesses. "All day yesterday, every second we were close, I just wanted…"</p>
<p>"Me too," I nod, my hands resting on the top of his chest. The moment my fingers touch him, he locks his hands on my hips. </p>
<p>"Sorry, you were saying...you stopped by here to…"</p>
<p>"Yea!" I say after initially struggling to remember. "Ann and her husband asked us over tonight. You want to go?"</p>
<p>"I do."</p>
<p>"Cool."</p>
<p>"Yea," his look grows soft and tender. "You look lovely."</p>
<p>"You too."</p>
<p>Before I can think better of it, my finger raises to his mouth and traces his lip so gently I scarcely feel it at all. A smile flickers across his face and he swallows, the potential in the air hanging heavily in this little closet-sized room. I'm too impatient to wait for him to make up his mind, so I kiss him softly, sweetly. His hands raise to either side of my face as I take his lower lip between mine, feeling a little groan in his chest as the kiss deepens slightly. </p>
<p>Something is triggered in him as it seems the sweetest moments between us just can't contain the more passionate impulses struggling to break free. His arms wind and tighten around me. My hips press toward him of their own accord, and his hand pushes against me, low on my back, to bring us closer together. </p>
<p>His cock stirs against me, and I feel the intense ache growing between my legs that accompanies that rush of wetness, my body demanding more.</p>
<p>We're not pretending now, not acting as if our connection is innocent or pure. Not that I ever thought it was. It's the hungry fervor in him that really turns me on. Our elbows are hitting walls and a little shelf is digging into my leg. There's hardly enough room in here, but that does nothing to disrupt us. </p>
<p>He tugs up my top behind me, his hands, warm and intoxicating, landing on the bare flesh at my back. He yanks a stole off his neck that seems to be suffocating him. I reach for his belt, hoping he doesn't attempt to stop this now. I hear a rustling sound that I dismiss until someone speaks through the screen in the partition, "Father? Are you alright?"</p>
<p>He freezes completely, eyes filled with a special kind of terror and shame. He whispers out so softly, "I'm fine. Dropped my...my...I...erm–"</p>
<p>"Am I too late, Father?" the polite woman asks. </p>
<p>He steps back from me as much as he can, looking away, wiping his hands down his face like he can erase the sins from it. "No," he replies, sounding on the verge of anger until he adopts a more kindly, priestly tone, and adds, "not too late at all."</p>
<p>I want to laugh because it all seems so comical, but he's too horrified to see the humor in it. </p>
<p>"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," the voice begins.</p>
<p>He interrupts, "Can I have just a moment?" as he brushes the temptation off his clothes. He opens the door to peer out, looking all through the rows for anyone else. "Stay here. Just one moment," he tells the confessor.</p>
<p>He leads me out into the church, putting the stole back around his neck, his eyes darting toward the doors so I'll know to leave, and he hurries back into the booth. </p>
<hr/>
<p>If he doesn't come tonight to go to Ann's, I consider going alone. This thing with The Priest has harshly sloped peaks and valleys, ranging from exciting and passionate and thrilling, falling the whole way down to lonely and confused and utterly sad. As much as I've been in one of those valleys all day, I feel that familiar hope and raising of my spirits the moment my door buzzes, and he's waiting outside. </p>
<p>He takes a deep breath, his chest moving like he's summoning bravery. "You ready to go?" he asks.</p>
<p>"Just about…" I think of the things I need to gather in order to leave, then pause and lean slightly against the door jamb. Cautiously I ask, "You want to come in?"</p>
<p>He looks down the street, then back at me with deep determination and sincerity, and says, "You know as well as I do that if I come in, we won't be going anywhere else tonight."</p>
<p>I practically orgasm on the spot. </p>
<p>Before I can suggest anything more, he preemptively shakes his head no. </p>
<p>"Alright," I reply, grabbing my coat and following him out the door.</p>
<p>As we walk, he says, "I think it's best, for the time being, if we avoid situations where we're alone."</p>
<p>"We're alone right now."</p>
<p>"You know what I mean."</p>
<p>I laugh even though the words hurt. "Why? You scared of me?"</p>
<p>"No. Until I'm better able to control my actions wherever you're involved–"</p>
<p>"So you're not afraid of me. You're afraid of sex! Why? It's nothing for you to be frightened of!"</p>
<p>He shakes his head to deny it, then gravely replies, "It's not sex that scares me," before he rather clumsily changes the subject.</p>
<hr/>
<p>While at dinner, we're back to having fun, laughing. We slip right back into our familiar roles of pseudo-couple as I wonder why in the hell it has to stop when it's just us. I think we spend so much time with them because we get to play at closeness here, in a place where he feels safe feeling close.</p>
<p>He tells us all about the flower drama that has started a small feud between parishioners. I always imagine his church life to be about praying and doing very churchy things, but in many ways, he deals with the same bullshit at work as the rest of us. He and Ann discuss these trappings, the things that surround faith that become important to people, I mostly listen. </p>
<p>His hand rests on the seat of my chair near my leg for some reason, and it doesn't even seem forced. It's just natural, the way we are when we're with them. I let my hand fall on his, and he doesn't pull it away. </p>
<p>There always seems to be a point of contact when we're with them, like this is sacred (or perhaps unsacred) space. During this whole evening, every little touch makes me long for him more, but there's something beneath it all. It's a sense of sadness as I wonder if this is all we can ever have, just flirting and closeness when surrounded by the safety of these circumstances, and occasional encounters that end in frustration and, for him, guilt. I start to wonder if he really will stay strong forever. </p>
<p>But I smile and joke, refusing to relinquish what little we have, as I wonder if there's any way on Earth that I could make him mine. If I believed in devils and souls, I think I'd sell mine for the chance. </p>
<p>He walks me home, insisting as much, carrying my coat over his forearm since the evening is warm and dry. We're never short on conversation. </p>
<p>I don't invite him in because when we arrive at my door, he stands as far away from it as he can be without being in traffic. He calls out a friendly, "Goodnight," and strolls down the walkway before I can even respond. </p>
<p>And yes, I can't resist, can't wait another moment. It's like a fucking ritual, masturbating at the first available moment after we part. The built up anticipation is wrecking me. This first time won't take but a minute since I'm practically done already, but I guarantee I'll be at it again before the night is over, thinking of him and hoping orgasmic satisfaction will help dust away the disappointment. </p>
<p>Shoes kicked off, I raise my skirt and slink out of my underwear, letting it fall down over my knees. I'm pre-orgasmic the moment my fingers find their rhythm against my sex.</p>
<p>I'm so ready to cum I'm on autopilot, my sex soaked, fingers working feverishly over me. I'm almost there. Just a bit…</p>
<p>The buzzer rings. Loud and insistent. I don't care who in the hell it is, I just need to finish first, and I'll deal with the rest later. The buzzer goes again, and I hear my Priest's familiar voice say, "It's just me."</p>
<p>I freeze. I wonder if he hit that breaking point, too. He buzzes again. "You alright?"</p>
<p>I fix my clothes and smooth my skirt. I tuck my right hand behind me, wondering if I'm so fucking wet he could see the evidence on my fingers.</p>
<p>"Hey," I reply, opening the door, my voice shaky.</p>
<p>"Started to think maybe you went back out."</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>He extends his hand like he wants to shake, and I see my coat draped over his forearm. "Forgot to give this to you."</p>
<p>"Yea, thanks," I say, smiling, taking it and nodding. I think about inviting him in, but don't want to hear him say no. But he doesn't leave right away.</p>
<p>"You alright?" he asks, concern growing.</p>
<p>"Yea."</p>
<p>"What's happened?"</p>
<p>"Nothing."</p>
<p>"You sure? You look…" he studies me. "You angry?" he asks.</p>
<p>I probably look it. My face feels red, and I was stopped three seconds short of an orgasm I really need. "No."</p>
<p>I see him preparing to ask more questions when I stop and argue far too loudly, "I was fucking wanking, alright? Just because you made promises to your imaginary friend never to have an orgasm again doesn't mean I can't. You won't have sex with me, but I can very well fucking fuck myself, can't I?"</p>
<p>A neighbor pauses as he walks past, and I scowl at him and wordlessly threaten that he had better move on. </p>
<p>"Sorry," I say, realizing my frustration at this, at the thought that I love someone who simply will not have me, realizing that I'm in some kind of mess I'm having trouble figuring my way out of. </p>
<p>He steps up into my flat and closes the door. "You're right." I assume it's because he doesn't want to be caught having this conversation outside.</p>
<p>"Yea, I know," I reply, moving to the opposite wall because I don't know if I can stand to be too near.</p>
<p>"Show me," he says, his voice a little hoarse. He waits. </p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Show me what you were doing."</p>
<p>"Uh," I say as I look around, and there are parts of my brain shouting out that I should be responsible, but I don't think I'm capable of that. I drop my coat on the floor.</p>
<p>It's all so hot, the thought of it. I slip the little lacy garment I wore beneath my skirt down until it falls to my feet. He stares a moment before his eyes follow my legs back up. </p>
<p>I reach for the bottom of my skirt, lifting only a little, giving him time to run away into the night as he certainly will.</p>
<p>But he doesn't. He nods, leaning his shoulders back against the door like he's trying to glue them in place. "Go on," he encourages. </p>
<p>I lift the skirt a little more, reaching beneath, my fingertips only skimming against my sex, but I'm already so insanely aroused that I bite my lip to muffle an unstoppable moan and my head tips back to rest against the wall behind me. </p>
<p>I glance at him to be sure he's remained. At first he's calm, easy, his expression so smooth it's almost glassy, although I cannot mistake it for disinterest because of the deep arousal in his eyes that's so powerful I almost can't look directly into them. </p>
<p>He can't stay where he is. He pushes off from the door and walks steadily closer, slowly, his eyes reading me for permission that he gets with neon sign clarity.</p>
<p>We're so near I can almost feel him, separated by a paper-thin space. But I don't stop, gasping when my fingers swirl over my clit, and he moves ever closer until his chest is against me. </p>
<p>His lips ghost across mine before moving to my ear where he whispers, "It's not for lack of wanting you. It's tearing me apart, making me question who I am and everything I've worked for."</p>
<p>"I want you, too," I say, the sound of my voice showing my excitement.</p>
<p>He nods before his mouth finds my neck, licking and sucking the most sensitive spots, making my knees wobbly. He touches my shoulders, my ribs, my waist, lingering on my hips when his mouth crashes to mine, hungry and demanding. </p>
<p>One of his palms slides down over my low back to my arse and shoves me toward him. I'd know he's hard and wanting even if I couldn't feel him against me. </p>
<p>His other hand touches the front of my thigh just as I nearly cum, so I slow down a little. His fingers glide up my leg and don't stop. </p>
<p>He covers my hand, the one strumming my clit, shadowing it really, following the movement of my fingers against me. For a few breaths, that seems to be enough. But his fingers wiggle between mine, tired of shadowing and seeking direct contact for himself. He groans and pushes his hips against me the moment he slides through that slickness. We're both getting me off, our touches mingling. </p>
<p>And then, like he just cannot resist, his hand moves lower, seeking more intimate contact, following the curve of my slit and waiting at my entrance. I angle toward him, wanting him inside me. </p>
<p>I moan in a long, erotic way as his fingers push into me, taking at first a few slow pumps in my body that quicken as his limited patience abates. The desirous look on his face arouses me to no end. My free hand grasps at his shoulder, holding onto him, knowing that I want so much more, that I want us both to give in, to feel him cum inside me. </p>
<p>I'm too worked up to ask for more right now. This orgasm feels like it's been eluding me forever. My fingers slow on my clit only a little because I want this to last because it feels so fantastic, but he groans in my ear, "Keep going," and I do. I'd do almost anything he could ask me right now.</p>
<p>I shudder hard as I orgasm, a fist possessing his shoulder, his fingers deep inside me, pressing forward at my pulses that surround him. I can't think, I can't hear, I can't do anything but cum hard against him as he swallows my moans.</p>
<p>He holds me close as I come down. His hand cups my jaw, and in his eyes I see the depth of his connection to me. I fucking think he's in love. I know I am. </p>
<p>Right when I think it may all be alright, it isn't.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The Priest walks hurriedly, taking greater effort for the weight in his chest caused by the severity of his missing her, mixed with guilt and failure. It's an unpleasant cocktail. It's been over three days since he's seen her, since he dropped his fucking guard and allowed them to be alone again. He can still hear the echoes of her orgasm in his ears, feel her body against him, taste her kisses.</p>
<p>He tells himself he should feel strong and pious for walking away when he did, for putting on the brakes before things steered into far less excusable territory. But he doesn't feel strong or pious. He feels cowardly and lost and empty. Like there's a longing that will not ever end. His desire for her has long since surpassed comparisons to starvation. It feels like the ache may consume him.</p>
<p>He finds Ann's name on the placard of the church where the times for services are displayed. This is the right place. He walks in, noticing subtle differences compared to his church, some that many people wouldn't even notice. He takes a seat off to the side, folding his hands in his lap, and trying to hear God. These last few days it's been hard to be peaceful enough to even try. The only prayers he manages are long apologies that tend to make him angry over his failures and all that cannot be.</p>
<p>Ann is up front near the altar, making preparations. He tries to stay still. He's not sure if he wants her to notice him yet or not. She does though, walking down the aisle to greet him as soon as she recognizes her visitor. </p>
<p>She takes a seat on the bench in front of his, sitting sideways to face him. "This is a pleasant surprise," she says. "After you guys cancelled last night I figured–"</p>
<p>"Sorry about that," he interrupts, not wanting to explain he was the reason they cancelled. "Hope I'm not disturbing you," he says, rising slightly from the seat like he's going to leave.</p>
<p>"Don't be ridiculous. Please," she gestures for him to remain.</p>
<p>He does, feeling abnormally nervous for the favor he's about to ask.</p>
<p>"Just you today?" Ann asks.</p>
<p>"Yea." He stares down at his hands in his lap.</p>
<p>"Look, if you want some time to yourself, I can–"</p>
<p>"Not at all," he quickly interrupts. "I was just curious. About your building."</p>
<p>"Okay," she replies, although he thinks she doesn't believe him. Admittedly, he is noticeably frazzled.</p>
<p>They share polite conversation for a moment, and she says, "I'm positive you didn't stop here to discuss our candle supplier."</p>
<p>He attempts a chuckle, but doesn't speak.</p>
<p>She gently asks, "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"</p>
<p>"I have a favor to ask."</p>
<p>"What's that?"</p>
<p>"The wedding...for her Dad and soon-to-be-stepmother...can you do it?"</p>
<p>"What?" she counters with clear surprise. "You're joking?"</p>
<p>"I'm not. They don't care about denomination or religion at all...it's just part of the show. I can't find a Catholic priest who will do it at such short notice. Do you think you can take it for me? I'd be in your debt."</p>
<p>"You seemed somewhat enthusiastic about it before. Why don't you want to do it now?"</p>
<p>"I just...can't."</p>
<p>She waits with easy patience for a better answer.</p>
<p>Leaning his forehead in his hands, he blurts, "I'm in love with her." It's the first time he's admitted it aloud, but it feels like it had to come out, and he echoes, "God help me, I'm in love with her."</p>
<p>"The bride?" Ann counters.</p>
<p>He bolts straight up. "No! Fuck no, with–"</p>
<p>"I know," she nods and smiles, allowing him to realize it was a joke.</p>
<p>"You suspected?" he asks, his voice sounding as though he's near tears.</p>
<p>"I <em> knew, </em>" she corrects. "From the first night I saw the two of you together. Also your touching games aren't as subtle as you think they are."</p>
<p>"Sorry."</p>
<p>"No, please! Don't be."</p>
<p>"I don't know what to do."</p>
<p>"Did you tell her?"</p>
<p>"What's the point in saying it if it's obvious?"</p>
<p>"Oh, there is very much a point in actually telling a person that you love them. That's not something she should have to guess or assume."</p>
<p>"What good would that do?" he says, feeling like he's fucked this all up so badly that there's no way out. "It's pointless. No good can come of it."</p>
<p>Ann chuckles. "Do you know...I knew she loved you before I even met you. When I saw her at her café, preparing for your meeting."</p>
<p>He stalls, taking in that information, imagining his Love at her café, thinking of him. For a moment he smiles, warmly, feeling definite joy at the thought of her loving him, too. Then he remembers every single reason why they cannot be together. "I'm fucked," he tells the reverend. "My life is fucked. Our friendship is ruined. I'll only cause her, and myself, pain. How did I ever let this happen?"</p>
<p>"You think you can control love?"</p>
<p>"I could have kept my distance. Not allowed us to become close. Prevented this whole thing if I'd just…"</p>
<p>"Stayed away?"</p>
<p>"Yea."</p>
<p>Ann pauses, thinking for a moment before she says, "Okay. So why didn't you? If it is that easy, why didn't you just stay away?"</p>
<p>"Erm," he flounders. This question should be easy. "I dunno. I just...wanted to be around her. She's fun–"</p>
<p>"–doubtlessly–"</p>
<p>"–and sort of secretly kind–"</p>
<p>"–true–"</p>
<p>"–I was lonely and wanted a friend. And her smile...her smile…" He clears his throat and focuses, "Being around her makes me feel… …"</p>
<p>"Makes you feel what?" Ann gently prods.</p>
<p>"...alive."</p>
<p>"You weren't attracted to her at first? That developed later?"</p>
<p>"No. I was attracted to her. But attraction can be fleeting."</p>
<p>"You thought she wasn't attracted to you?"</p>
<p>He winces. "I believed she was."</p>
<p>"So you knew you shared mutual attraction, and felt clearly drawn to her, and she, obviously, to you. On some level, you must have acknowledged the possibility that something might come of that."</p>
<p>"You think I'm a fool?"</p>
<p>"No. I think you thought you could control love. Which, I suppose, is a bit foolish. Many people believe they can, but really doing it is pretty rare."</p>
<p>"People do it all the time."</p>
<p>"No. People control their actions. Not so much their emotions. I think some emotions can be influenced, tempered, but love...once it settles in, it's hard to reason with."</p>
<p>"I'm so fucked. I'm so fucked," he mumbles like a mantra.</p>
<p>Ann places a firm hand on his shoulder. "It may feel like it right now, but–"</p>
<p>He interrupts, feeling true anguish, "What am I supposed to do? I've sacrificed everything for this life. Everything. You think I should walk away on the slim chance that love can somehow work out, because it doesn't usually, not really–" he pauses when he sees the knowing expression on her face. He feels like a criminal who just accidentally walked into a trap and gave away a vital clue.</p>
<p>Her expression grows intentionally neutral, and she says, "I didn't advise that."</p>
<p>"What advice would you give?"</p>
<p>"In my official capacity as a priest? Or as a human?"</p>
<p>"Shouldn't those answers be the same?"</p>
<p>She shakes her head. "I didn't evolve into some kind of higher being when I was ordained."</p>
<p>He chuckles, moping.</p>
<p>Professionally, she states, "In an official capacity, I would suggest prayer. Maybe a retreat where you can pray and reflect without everything going on around you. A place where you feel safe to explore how you feel and can consider your options."</p>
<p>"Yea. I could do that. But when I come back…"</p>
<p>"I'm afraid you won't like a lot of the 'official capacity' answers to that question."</p>
<p>"I can never see her again," he guesses. </p>
<p>"That depends. If you want to continue your friendship while remaining celibate, you'd need to define very clear boundaries that you both agree on and don't deviate from. Probably best not to involve alcohol, keep your time together public. Even still, while those actions can prevent the sorts of physical expressions you may feel guilty about…they can't really prevent or diminish love. And it's her choice, whether she agrees to the terms or not. You'd have to be prepared for her not to."</p>
<p>He feels like every direction he tries to turn has greater pains at the end. </p>
<p>She continues, "You'd also have to accept the fact that she will likely date others. It's not fair to expect her to deny that part of herself because you've chosen a life of celibacy."</p>
<p>He looks at Ann, displaying the deep wound he feels at the thought of surrendering his chance to someone else. </p>
<p>"I'm sorry," she says.  </p>
<p>"No, no. You're right." Frustration mounting, he shakes his head and emphatically gesticulates, his voice echoing through the building as he shouts, "Not that it fucking matters anyway. I can't be around her without touching her, without kissing her. And if I let what's left of my guard down, I don't think I'll be able to stop and–" Something falls in the far end of the church. He swallows nervously, fearing that God Himself is providing a warning, but he realizes the noise came from someone who is cleaning near the altar.</p>
<p>"Go for a walk?" Ann offers.</p>
<p>She leads him out to the church garden. It's beautiful. Usually he could get lost in contemplation in a place like this. Today, peace doesn't seem possible. He explains, "I can't leave this life. And I can't be around her and keep my distance. So the only thing I can do is avoid her every day for the rest of my fucking life, maybe request a transfer out of London."</p>
<p>"Strange that option seems to make you more miserable than all the rest."</p>
<p>"But it's the only one. Isn't it? These things I'm feeling for her...they're bad, I know they're bad–"</p>
<p>Ann groans.</p>
<p>"What?" he sharply counters.</p>
<p>"Full disclosure? The more I work with people, the more I really struggle with the all-or-nothing, good-or-bad approach to life. Even in my own church, I struggle with it."</p>
<p>"I thought you belonged to the church that is the 'younger funner cousin' of mine," The Priest quotes her husband with some irritation. </p>
<p>She chuckles. "In some ways. As I see it, personally, right and wrong can't be easily decided along crisp lines. Those rules were written by men, men of this earth...who had no perspective but their own limited one. And plenty of exceptions have been made by the church for truly awful people. This love you share with her...it isn't awful."</p>
<p>"But it is wrong."</p>
<p>"I have so much trouble labeling love between two adults who clearly care for each other and share an obvious connection as 'wrong' or 'bad.' That's the point I'm trying to make. That kind of love really isn't wrong."</p>
<p>He feels like he could scream.</p>
<p>She notices and says, "Indulge me, for a moment. I've a sort of little parable to share."</p>
<p>"Sure," he says, not really wanting to hear this, but feeling so desperate for help that he's willing to listen. </p>
<p>"I grew up in a small rural village, very small. Great place to grow up. Everyone knew everyone else. We had all types, kind of a fascinating cast of characters. The ones I remember most were a man and a woman who really were at the center of the community. They were ancient by the time I came along. They lived next door to each other for as long as anyone could remember, neither ever married. They were always known to hold little summer game events for the children, had big parties and invited everyone, even the people other people didn't want to invite. When my family fell on hard times, the man hired my father to do some work around the house, gardening, painting...enough to help us get through. The woman made blankets for every baby born, no one was ever sick without getting a hot meal or two delivered by them. People say she gave the best advice, and never betrayed a confidence.  They were the heart and soul of our community."</p>
<p>She continues, "They died a few days apart. My parents, out of gratitude, decided to clean their homes and tend the garden until the new occupants arrived. Dad was trimming these massive bushes along the back and realized there was a hidden path between the bushes and the garden wall that joined the man's and woman's houses through cellar doors. In his room, my mother found two different bedside tables, each with its own clock and separate books, even two Bibles. Several items in his quarters made it clear a woman often stayed."</p>
<p>"They were lovers."</p>
<p>"Yea. Mum found letters between them from when they were younger. I used to catch her reading them sometimes, secretly, with the most awed and lovestruck look on her face. She hid them before they could be found and cause a scandal. My parents cleaned up anything that seemed suspicious. They loved those two like parents, didn't want to see all the good they did for their whole lives forgotten because they loved each other. By all counts, good people, caring people. People who demonstrated God's love, brought the very teachings of Jesus to life in more ways than anyone else I've ever known."</p>
<p>"Certainly."</p>
<p>"Would you find them less wonderful if he was the Catholic parish priest and she was the caretaker who lived in the adjoining abandoned convent?"</p>
<p>The Priest sighs at walking into this story. "It's not right."</p>
<p>"What should they have done? Should he have resigned and both of them left in shame? Wasn't the community better for having those two people in it?"</p>
<p>"I can't answer that."</p>
<p>"And two such wonderful people, living in empty, lonely houses...if they found companionship and love with each other...should they have been denied that? And who's to say it wasn't God Himself who brought them together. That was when I first started questioning the whole idea of a celibate lifestyle. Those people, their actions, inspired me to serve even if it meant converting."</p>
<p>"You think I should fire Pam and move the woman I love into the rectory to carry on a secret affair for decades?" he says, showing the ridiculousness of that thought.</p>
<p>"That's not my decision to make. My point is simply that I don't think all things are so easily boxed and categorized into right and wrong. Maybe you and God and the woman you love need to decide if what you have is worth figuring out."</p>
<p>Impatiently returning to the original reason for this visit, he pleads,  "Will you do the wedding tomorrow?"</p>
<p>"Because I'm so very fond of both of you–"</p>
<p>"–thank you–" he interrupts with a bold sigh of relief.</p>
<p>"–I can't do it."</p>
<p>"What?" he laughs, hoping to God this is a fucking joke.</p>
<p>"I can't do it. I can't help you hide from this. From her. Anyway, I don't think it's breaking your vows to God that you <em> really </em> fear."</p>
<p>"Is that so?" He scoffs frustratedly.</p>
<p>"It's love you fear, love you're hiding from. I heard you say it...that there's a slim chance love can work. You fear placing your trust in that fact that this might be real, might be lasting. You fear hope, disappointment, you fear being hurt. You may even fear her."</p>
<p>"That's not at all–"</p>
<p>She interrupts, "<em>Talk </em> to her. This is worth figuring out, no matter what you ultimately decide to do. You owe that to her, and yourself. You owe it to God."</p>
<p>He can't answer, can't even begin to comprehend an answer. It feels like he was punched in the heart. Ann puts a hand on his shoulder, and she says, "I'm sorry.  I know that isn't what you wanted to hear.  I'm here if you ever want to talk again. But right now, you have a wedding to prepare for tomorrow."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's dawn on the morning of the wedding. The Priest feels a bit queasy at the thought of what this day will bring. He's going to see her, his Love, he's going to have to face this situation directly. He must perform a wedding. He needs to find a way to silence the thoughts he has of her almost constantly so he can compose himself and act like a real fucking priest. </p><p>His phone rings moments before going to say morning Mass, a savior on the other end of the call. Father Michael, a kindly old resident priest from a nearby parish, says, "So sorry, I just got this message. You called for someone to preside over a wedding for you?"</p><p>"Oh good! Yes!" The Priest replies, "I did."</p><p>"I'm available to do it. If you haven't found someone."</p><p>The Priest feels a wash of relief, nodding his head before he even answers, grinning ear to ear. But a strange thing happens when the words finally come. He answers, "Actually, I...found someone." He pauses, thinking of the double meaning here, and worrying that dear old Father Michael may figure it all out from those few words. The Priest clarifies, "I found someone to do the wedding. Me, actually. I'm doing it. I'm able to now because...because I'm…" he's definitely in a free-falling ramble, "I'm no longer...unavailable." He cringes at his own scatteredness.</p><p>"Very good then," Father Michael answers like it wasn't a strange explanation at all.</p><p>As the call ends, The Priest finds an odd peace in his choice, having chosen this path even when he had a way out.</p><hr/><p>The Priest, practicing his homily just before the wedding, feels that familiar tingle when he sees his Love in the distance. It's been four long days since he's spoken to her. She is standing with her sister when her future stepmother brings a man over to them. At first glance, it appears to be an introduction, but his Love seems to recognize the man.</p><p>The Priest shouldn't walk over to her yet, he's still not really prepared, nor is he even dressed in the clothes she helped him pick, but he goes toward her anyway like he's compelled.</p><p>He overhears The Bride saying to this handsome man, "You're just so gorgeous! So ridiculously good-looking."</p><p>"Thank you," the Good-looking Man replies like he's used to hearing that.</p><p>"So good-looking," she repeats with a fondness that seems rather peculiar given that she's marrying someone else this very day. </p><p>"Thank you," he smoothly repeats again. </p><p>Before she can repeat words of admiration yet again, The Priest interrupts too loudly, "Hello!"</p><p>"Oh, Father," The Bride says, "I just happened to run into our dear friend a few days ago and had to invite him. Strangest of coincidences. Is he not the most good-looking man you've ever seen?"</p><p>The Priest nods, uncertain how to answer that, so he reaches out and shakes the very handsome man's hand.</p><p>The Bride continues, "Can you believe he went out with my unstable stepdaughter a few times? Casually, I'm sure. Obviously."</p><p>"Good for you," The Priest forces a smile.</p><p>"I figured she'd probably be alone today, so maybe he could keep her company during the wedding. Sort of...charity."</p><p>"Wow, thanks," The Priest's Love replies with a kind of subtle sarcasm that not everyone notices but certainly should.</p><p>"No problem," the Good-looking Man says, either unaware or unconcerned about the rudeness The Bride is showing her future stepdaughter.</p><p>The Priest looks at his Love, who glances sort of in his direction but not really at him. She looks hurt through the obligatory social niceties. Immediately he wants to pull her aside, tell her how sorry he is. But he has no idea what comes after that. What's next for them?</p><p>The Bride adds, "Maybe he can distract her enough that she won't make a scene and ruin the day entirely." </p><p>Then Claire confesses she was the one who'd miscarried during their engagement party, and her sister was only covering for her. The Bride's temper flares, and enough awkwardness and tension follow that the only people left standing with him are his Love and the Good-looking Man.</p><p>"Good to see you," The Priest says to her, and she smiles at him, the first genuine one he's seen even though it's faint. He nods and waits for the Good-looking Man to take a hint and get lost, but apparently he isn't the most adept at reading cues. </p><p>"You too," she answers politely as he wishes he knew if she meant it.</p><p>The Good-looking Man not only hasn't left them alone yet, but he starts speaking of things like life and love and death and motorbikes in a way he seems to believe is profound. Realizing he isn't going to be able to speak to her privately just yet (and that the wedding is soon starting), The Priest summons his patience and says, "I should get changed."</p><p>"Good luck," his Love replies before she turns back toward the Good-looking Man. </p><p>As The Priest steps away, he hears the other man ask her, "You wanna have sex?"</p><p>"Now?" she questions softly, like she doesn't want The Priest to overhear. He wishes she sounded more opposed to the suggestion.</p><p>"Isn't that why people go to weddings?" the man asks her.</p><p>The Priest pries himself away, unable to watch or listen any longer. He tries to ignore the spark of envy he feels, and the nagging realization that he's the one who caused the rift between them.</p><p>He dresses inside the house, his hands shakily dropping the note cards for the homily that he should be practicing onto a small wooden table. To say he's unprepared is an understatement. He opens the folded black garment bag that protects his white vestments, the ones she helped him choose, and puts them on. He remembers the day they selected this outfit, and wishes she were sitting here with him now. </p><p>He's missed her each and every day they've been apart. He misses her even more now.</p><p>Since she's not here in this room to tell him if everything looks alright, he glances in the mirror and sees that he looks far more prepared for this wedding than he feels. He never imagined his first would be this way. </p><p>He's here now, though, and it's time to do this. Practicing a proper priestly expression in the mirror, he's half-satisfied with his attempt, so he steels himself for the hours to come and leaves the safety of his quiet changing room. </p><p>As he walks down the hall, he hears the unmistakable sound of people having sex behind the door of the room right next to where he was changing. </p><p>"I don't want to know," he whispers to God. But he does, he does want to know if that voice he hears is hers. Would she do that, have sex with a man in the room right next to where he was changing? Still speaking in hushed tones, he continues, "Maybe she didn't know I was in there? Or maybe she did...and..." He trails off, thinking to himself that maybe just as he's decided he can't run away from her, she's decided she's done with him.</p><p>He's brought out of his thoughts by the sounds of that couple, who clearly have no concerns about avoiding detection. Those moans he hears, if they're hers, should be his to hear, his to cause. The voices behind the door grow a little louder, and although he doesn't want to discover that it's her, he can't not know. Feeling heartsick and nauseated, he takes two steps back and leans toward the door a bit closer, trying his very best to look casual.</p><p>"So, is it okay to watch, too, or are you only allowed to listen?" asks a voice behind him, more than slightly amused.</p><p>"Oh!" His skin flushes red, panic rising as he turns around, seeing his Love watching him with arms loosely folded in front of her. He tries to make an excuse, rapidly speaking, "I was looking for my...I thought I lost...well, I needed…." He stops, shaking his head and giving up on any attempt to explain. He takes a moment to really look at the beauty of her in her dress. He confesses, "You look lovely," forgetting where he is or the awkward circumstance she caught him in. </p><p>"Thanks," she quietly replies. "You too."</p><p>"Elegant!" he reminds her as he outstretches his arms and shows off the chosen vestments.</p><p>"Yea."</p><p>"Thanks for helping me find the right one!" </p><p>"Sure." But she hasn't forgotten what she's caught him doing, and as the couple seems to be finished with their quick romp, she leads him away from the door and saves him the embarrassment of being caught standing just outside. </p><p>The door opens and a snickering pair pours out into the hall, more amused than embarrassed about the likelihood that they were caught, and then disappears back out to the wedding. </p><p>His Love asks flippantly, "Were you in the mood for live porno, or looking for someone?"</p><p>"Well...I…" he comes closer to her, knowing still that he has no ability to stay away. Swept up by a spontaneous thought, he decides he's going to pull her into a room just to have a few moments with her to attempt to fill this void that exists between them now. </p><p>He reaches for her without hesitation, but she turns slightly away, pointing back toward the way out, and says, "Godmother sent me to get you."</p><p>He's always the one who insists on boundaries between them, putting the brakes on their romance, and now that she is, it fucking hurts. He wonders how she felt the last time they were together, when he unexpectedly left and didn't speak to her again until today.</p><p>Maybe he's waited too long. Maybe she's tired of his wavering and uncertainty. Maybe she can't take another moment of standing by while he wrestles with this dilemma. </p><p>"Okay," he says, and follows her out, trying to wipe the pained expression from his face.</p><p>A plan formulates in his mind to invite her to get a drink and talk after the ceremony, somewhere away from all of this. But as he watches her take her seat between Claire and the Good-looking Man, The Priest realizes she probably already has other plans for the evening. </p><p>Filled with nervous awkwardness, he takes his place at the front of the crowd and prepares to join two people who are not afraid of love in Holy Matrimony. It's only now that he realizes he left his note cards on the table in the room where he'd dressed.</p><hr/><p>I can't fucking believe Godmother invited Arsehole Guy to the wedding, but I shouldn't be surprised. Not sure what she had to do to hunt him down, but she's certainly pleased with her efforts. I know she dislikes the familiarity I share with The Priest, and her newly invited guest gives her more opportunities to demonstrate why I'm an unsuitable friend. Probably a little wedding gift to herself.</p><p>Since Godmother has invited him, I could make the best of it, go home with him. He's remarkably beautiful and things between us are so easy. There's nothing really stopping me, nothing at all except the way I feel every time I look at The Priest. </p><p>I convince Claire to chase a chance at love even though I truly believe I'll never have one. At least not the one I want. Once she's gone, Arsehole Guy is still beside me, occasionally whispering something he believes is powerful or insightful. </p><p>
  <em> I'm really trying to convince myself that he's what I want right now...that the type of simple, casual encounters from my past are exactly what I'm looking for. I wish he'd stop talking because he's really ruining it.</em>
</p><hr/><p>As night falls, I'm ready to head out and go home. The Priest and I have hardly spoken this entire time. I feel like I should consider that some kind of success, but mostly I just miss the hell out of him already. He's been here the entire time, we're moving around in this same circle, but we're so very far apart. It makes me miss those evenings we spent with our friends where we'd sit close and touch and, for a few hours, we seemed so...together. </p><p>I miss the intense intimacy of all we shared. </p><p>The hour is growing late when Dad asks me for a dance before I leave. He looks happy and tired, and his eyes gaze upon me with kindness (for the time being). He dances purposefully, like we're going somewhere, and then I realize he's moved us over next to where The Priest is standing. </p><p>Speaking loudly enough for both of us to hear, Dad says, "After your mother...you know…" I nod. It still hurts him to speak of the fact that she's gone. "Yes," he says like I supplied the word 'died' although I've said nothing. "After that...I never thought I'd...I never imagined...well...I never thought I'd marry. I expected to be...alone."</p><p>"I'm happy for you, Dad," I genuinely respond.</p><p>"It's difficult…" he speaks directly to The Priest, who hasn't moved since Dad led us to this spot, "...hope. L–l–love. Like you said during the...wedding...and once it's hurt you...you don't...well, you don't always want to try it again. But sometimes...there's a reason. A person, a very special person, who makes it worth...trying." Dad turns back to me, flustered by all this talking. </p><p>My arms tighten a little around him.</p><p>"Well, did you hear that?" Dad asks, although The Priest and I both don't appear to know what he's referring to. "I believe my wife is talking–calling...needs me."</p><p>
  <em> She's not. She's just over there speaking in animatedly earnest ways to very 'interesting' people. </em>
</p><p>I loosen my hug, but Dad says, "It's very rude, of course, to leave someone part way through a dance."</p><p>"Oh, that's okay," I answer.</p><p>"No, no, no," Dad answers like he's horrified by the thought. He looks at the Priest and says, "Would you mind... taking my spot?"</p><p>"Oh. Uh. Sure. Why not," The Priest says as I'm handed over to him. I look around, expecting the whole remaining crowd to gather around and call out this unholy moment, but no one even appears to notice. </p><p>Dad seems to be leaving, but pauses and says, "Even those who choose hope...have fear. We just don't–don't let it have all the fun." Fondly, he adds, "I think that's...something your mother would have said." </p><p>I watch him leave, my smile following Dad as he finds his new wife. </p><p>"How'd I do? For my first wedding?" The Priest questions nervously.</p><p>I nod approval but can't quite look at him. We're as far apart as we can be, given the circumstances, dancing in a politely fraternal way on the surface. But the heat of his arm around my mid back, the weight of his stare, and our shared closeness make this feel strikingly intimate. I quietly mourn the loss of what will not be. </p><p>"Wait until Dad's out of sight, and you can stop," I offer. I make myself smile and my cheeks ache for the effort it takes.</p><p>He pulls me in just a little bit closer, I doubt the change could be seen by someone looking on, but I can certainly feel it. His thumb strokes me where his hand rests on my back, like he's being caught up in the moment, and then he remembers where he is and his hold on me loosens. "I understand why you're angry with me–"</p><p>"I'm not angry," I interrupt.</p><p>"Annoyed–"</p><p>"No. Not that either."</p><p>"What then?" he carefully urges. </p><p>I come closer, mostly so others can't possibly overhear. "Look, I get it. I know that your church says you and I can't be together. But it doesn't seem to change the fact that I...I love you," I say with complete certainty. It simply needed to be said, even if it doesn't make a difference at all.</p><p>When I pull back, I can't even begin to discern the look on his face. He recovers from words he didn't expect to hear here and now. His lungs fill as he prepares his speech, but I intervene, "Don't. Don't say anything. I know it doesn't matter. Needed to say it just once."</p><p>I can already tell he doesn't want to be silent. I hear Godmother's voice coming toward us, and for the first time ever, I'm relieved she's here. As she approaches, I leave him with her. She's happy to have him. I finally say goodnight to Dad and hurry off. </p><p>It's quiet at the bus stop. This hurts, okay. It really fucking hurts. But I've survived hurt before. And I am glad that, at least once, I had a chance to tell him how I feel. I needed him to know that he wasn't just a challenge, or something forbidden. He mattered, he <em> still </em>matters. </p><p>Oddly enough, as I sit here feeling sad and lonely and a little bit lost, he's the first person I wish I could go to to feel better. He's the one I imagine sitting with, drinking with, laughing and flirting with until the pain doesn't feel so pervasive. As tears well in my eyes, I think about how unbelievably important a person can become in such a short time.</p><hr/><p>As his Love disappears from the celebration, The Priest is pulled away by The Bride, who is still a whirlwind of excitement. Her husband joins her shortly, looking at The Priest's arms like something is missing there. </p><p>The Priest can't hide the sort of desperate way he's scanning the thinning crowd for his Love while The Bride talks and talks about the day and her appreciation for having 'a real priest' perform the ceremony.</p><p>The Groom, mercifully, says to his wife, "Darling...someone was looking for you...in the kitchen...And perhaps we should…" he nods to leave. </p><p>"Well…" she only half pays attention, turning back to The Priest and continuing her conversation.</p><p>But The Groom, still soft-spoken and meek but more assertive than usual, says, "Darling, it seemed...rather urgent…"</p><p>"Yes, of course," she says, a bit annoyed but not enough to resist redirection. </p><p>When she steps away, The Groom turns to The Priest and points a slightly hesitant finger in the right direction and whispers, "She went that way."</p><p>The Priest bobs his head, wondering if he should say something more to the man who's trying to help him. But he has to go now. He has to follow her. He has a horrible feeling that if he doesn't act immediately, his chance will be gone forever. He can't let her slip through his fingers without knowing.</p><p>He nods, shaking The Groom's hand warmly and saying, "Congratulations," before he takes off after her.</p><p>The Priest forgets his bag, his vestments, everything he brought here today. He hurries to get to her. This fucking ache is killing him. He never even had the chance to tell her that she isn't the only one who's in love.</p><p>His quick walk becomes a jog as he hurries in the direction her father pointed. </p><p>When he sees her, he pauses for a moment and looks at her and smiles, although she doesn't see him. She's not even looking toward him or for him. She's found acceptance, patiently waiting for her ride. Or maybe she's fed up and has simply gotten over him. Maybe she's going to meet up with the man she was speaking to earlier.</p><p>The Priest breaks into a trot, but slows to a fast walk as he gets closer, trying to look calmer about it all even though he's anything but calm. "Nice night," he says, sounding more breathless than he wishes he did.</p><p>His Love glances at him, then looks up toward the electronic sign that announces the bus schedule and time. She notes, "No real need to hurry. Bus isn't coming any time soon."</p><p>He chuckles, considers making a joke about it, but his presence here is no joke. It's clear her eyes are teary, and this fills him with a guilt greater than he's felt in a long while, maybe ever. He takes a seat beside her, hands folded between his knees, trying to look at her face even though she mostly stares down the road like she can will the bus to appear if she concentrates. </p><p>He asks, "Where's your friend? The man your stepmother finds almost disturbingly appealing."</p><p>"Balls deep in a photographer by now, I suspect," she replies evenly.</p><p>"Sorry," he says, feeling truly sad for her but selfishly relieved at the same time. </p><p>"Don't be. I suggested it."</p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Wasn't really in the mood for all that."</p><p>"Ah." He gathers his courage and takes a deep breath and says, "Listen–"</p><p>"Can we not talk about this, please?"</p><p>His hand lifts in a gesture like one he uses in services, palm up with fingers extended, but he's drawing her attention to the red-lighted bus sign instead of the heavens. "Thought you had a bit of time to spare."</p><p>"I already know what you're going to say," she responds.</p><p>"Is that so?"</p><p>She forces a friendly smile to hide behind. "There's something between us that we cannot ignore, so we end up acting on it, and that's a problem for you. You would...but you can't...and that's the way it is. Nothing you say changes that."</p><p>"I'm in love with you," he states. He watches her, eyes focused, wanting her to know this isn't a mere reciprocation of her earlier words.</p><p>She moves back a little like she's been gently slapped, her face blanking, finally arguing, "I know you think–"</p><p>"Just hear it," he interrupts harshly. He reaches over and rests his hand on hers in her lap, feeling that resurgence of hope when she holds onto his hand, too. </p><p>Her eyes are a little more watery than before. "I believe you when you say it," she admits, but looks to the sky and continues, "just not as much as you love…Him."</p><p>"There's not a finite amount of love a person can give," he says, assuring himself as much as her since this belief has only very recently come to him. </p><p>"I'm not the one who decided you could only love one thing. You and God made that decision without me." She smiles affectionately. She still doesn't want to hurt him. </p><p>They haven't solved a damn thing yet, not really, but being here next to her, he knows he cannot simply let her go.</p><p>He's going to show her, prove to her that he's not too afraid, that he's not going to run. Leaning in, her hand still firmly held in his, he swallows his nerves and hopes she doesn't turn away. She stalls at the last moment. Standing, she keeps his hand in hers and tugs it until he rises and follows her, and they disappear into a dim alley between buildings. It seems rather fitting that they would find themselves back in an alley again. She's right to move out of sight as he wouldn't handle getting caught very well. </p><p>Finally alone, at least sort of, his concerns rapidly fade when she steps closer until his back meets the gravelly brick behind him. Her fingers rest against his chest as she monitors his response. She kisses him first, her mouth soft and welcoming, reassuring him of her feelings on all this. She pulls back, but not far, just far enough to make him chase her. </p><p>And chase her he does, completely disregarding where they are or the somewhat lacking privacy they have. He tugs open the belt on her coat so he can feel her closer against him, winding his arms beneath it and holding her.</p><p>She pauses, her nose nudging his, as she breathes a soft giggle, "Want to come home with me?" </p><p>"You have no idea. Yea. Yes. I really do," while his hands extricate themselves from her coat and hold her face for one more kiss. </p><p>"Come on," she replies, removing herself from the embrace, slipping out of her partially removed coat and draping it over her arm. She fixes her dress as he fumbles for a phone to call for a ride. If they have to wait for a bus or attempt to walk, he doesn't know how they'll resist long enough to get to her flat.</p><hr/><p>He's seated next to her in the back of the car, remembering that first night they rode together when she had a bloody nose, and he a bruised eye, and he thought she'd just had a miscarriage. So much change in so little time. </p><p>They're quiet in the back of the car, not really able to say much with a driver in the front. The ride provides a long, silent space where there's little to do but wait and think. His mind and body are rushing with thoughts of what's to come, full of wants and desires and needs. And worries, too. </p><p>"You alright?" she asks.</p><p>He nods as an anxious exhale escapes. He states, "Don't remember your flat being so far away. Did you move, or is this simply the longest possible route?"</p><p>A smile plays on her lips. "In a hurry?"</p><p>His eyes grow wide, "Yea!"</p><p>The desire and love in her expression are unmistakable, overt, thrilling really. "Not much longer," she replies before she breaks the stare and gazes out the window. He wonders if she's worried he'll change his mind during the ride.</p><p>Her coat is folded over her lap, and that, coupled with darkness, is too great a temptation for him to ignore. His fingers slip under the coat and rest secretly against her leg, and he pauses there to see if she disapproves. But her lips subtly part as she moves toward him the tiniest bit in silent invitation, a fact that doesn't go unnoticed by him. </p><p>The hem of her red dress sits just below his palm, and he knows no one could see, no one would know if he indulged in his need for a touch. </p><p>His breath quickens, his heart pounding in anticipation, and this thought alone sends fiery pulses of arousal through him. His fingertips press against her leg, stroking over the skin, taking only a few seconds before he becomes bolder. He shifts toward her inner thigh, noting the more obvious parting of her legs. As he moves up under her dress, finding sinfully hidden places to touch, he watches his control slipping away, the desire to pull her into his lap verging on impossible to resist. He doesn't know how he's waited this long.</p><p>"Can you hold this for me?" she asks, breaking him out of his thoughts. </p><p>Her bag is flung at him before he can answer, and he replies, "Yea," after the fact. </p><p>Initially he thinks she disapproves of what he's doing, but the slightly devious smirk that plays on the edge of her lips makes it clear that isn't the case. When her hand wanders beneath the bag and lands on his leg, he understands. </p><p>She has quite the talent for communicating with simply a look, telling him silently that she expects equal opportunity. Her palm slides over his thigh, and she searches for signs he'll resist. He has before. He remembers all too well the way he ran off after their last encounter at her flat...it's not exactly a moment he enjoys remembering, and he plans on trying to make up for that mistake.</p><p>He's so fucking turned on he starts to block out anything but them and their secret fumblings. Her touch is warm and firm on his leg, feeling ever hotter as she gets nearer his sex. He's dizzy with longing, mind numb with need. </p><p>His little finger finally reaches the apex of her thighs, pausing there and subtly brushing her pussy, separated from him by only a very thin and noticeably damp layer of cloth. He can't stop the heavier breaths that come or the intensity of his response. </p><p>Her fingers move up his leg, brushing against his balls then climbing higher and finding the ridge in his trousers. She traces his erection, two or maybe three fingers against him, offering a slight touch that doesn't allow enough friction to alleviate, only enough to make the need greater. Those feathery half strokes consume him while his eyes focus on that draped coat over her legs as if he may be able to see through if he focuses. </p><p>It feels so incredible just to touch and be touched. He pushes his finger closer to her, noting the softness of her folds as he rests at the parting of her flesh. He can see her moan more than he can hear it, a nearly silent noise that accompanies a forward rocking of her hips that pushes her closer to him.</p><p>She presses against him a little more firmly, and the need to unzip and let her curl her fingers around his cock is reaching a level he cannot ignore. </p><p>He notes the growing wetness against his finger, seeping through the fabric that separates them as he touches her, really debating whether he should wiggle his finger beneath the barrier for a more unencumbered exploration. But he has to try to stop this from going way too far, given their location.   </p><p>As he imagines that, though, a bare touch against her naked sex, and then the thought of being buried deep inside her, she politely coughs. He realizes the driver is talking to him, as his Love is watching with great amusement at his lack of awareness. "What?" he asks.</p><p>She nods out the window, withdrawing her hand from his lap and taking money from her bag to pay the cabbie. "We're here."</p><p>"Oh!" he replies with genuine surprise, clutching her bag in front of himself as he hurriedly follows her. </p><p>When he's finally in her flat, he breathes a sigh of relief that's mixed with a new set of flutters, dropping her bag on the floor. His pulse races when she reaches over his shoulder and turns the key to lock the door, and he finds himself sort of in her embrace. She pauses and waits with a look of shy anticipation. "You sure this is what you want?" she asks, bracing for an answer. </p><p>Giving the question brief consideration, he replies, "Absolutely. You?"</p><p>Her answer is a kiss, hot and demanding, his hands moving low on her back to the swell of her arse and pushing her against him as they both moan at the pressure of their collision.</p><p>He tugs up that dress, excited at the touches of bare skin, quickly pulling it off her. She has so few layers and he so many, but he wants her against him, naked and exposed. Her bra unclasps easily and, as it falls down from her, he breathes a shaky breath as he opens his collar but does nothing else to rid himself of those layers of clothes.</p><p>Her eyes look wild with want when she shoves him away enough to unbutton his shirt. He watches while she undoes the few top buttons of his shirt, and almost immediately he pulls off his jacket, helping her, showing her he's in this, he wants to be here. </p><p>When she finally gets his shirt off, she finds a pure white undershirt beneath and shakes her head. He waits for her to make a joke about finding layer after layer of clothing, but instead she pulls up his shirt and seems relieved to find nothing else beneath. </p><p>When he tugs his belt open in a near frenzy, she giggles, and he sees joy in her eyes instead of sadness and loss. That look does things to him. Her hands slide down his hips beneath his trousers, lowering them. </p><p>He kicks off his shoes, one foot helping the other, but by this point his patience is a bare thread, so he hurriedly leaves the rest of his clothing in a pile on the floor. </p><p>At the first available moment, his arm is around her waist, pulling her close. Soft, smooth skin against skin. </p><p>Stepping backwards into her flat, she leads him to her bedroom. She sits on the bed, leaning back and bringing him with her, over her. He lowers down to her, her body between his and the mattress as they explore the person in their embrace.</p><p>Pushing himself up, he slips down the bed, standing before her. His palms slide up her thighs, tugging at the elastic at her hips that holds the very last scrap of silky fabric on either of them. He takes a moment to look at the naked woman waiting for him. </p><p>On hands and knees he climbs over her up her mattress, kissing the insides of her thighs as he comes back up. He stops, just for a moment, at her pussy, covering her with his mouth, his tongue sliding along her slit, dabbling just for a moment at her entrance, quickly slipping up to her clit and swirling around it hungrily. He couldn't resist a taste of her dripping sex. Her hands grasp the sheets as her lower back lifts from the bed and her moan fills the room. Her leg hooks over him to hold him. </p><p>He doesn't linger long, nibbling at her hip and licking her tummy. Her nipples are tightly perked and rosy, an invitation he cannot pass up, sucking each before moving up her chest. His open mouth slides along her neck, kisses finding her jaw before his lips rest next to her ear as he settles his weight between her legs.</p><p>This quick tour of her body has lit fresh urgency in both. Her hips cradle his, welcoming him, her pelvis tipping up in invitation, little desperate sighs escaping as she feels the pressure of his body against her sex. </p><p>As he positions himself to finally enter her, he pauses to look at her once more, and as soon as her eyes meet his, she lifts her head from the pillow to give an insistent kiss of consent. His hips move forward, allowing him to sink into her. He nuzzles his face next to hers as he steadily pushes all the way in. He's swallowed up in the hot, slippery pressure that surrounds him. Her hand rests in his hair, holding him against her, the other gripping his back. </p><p>And it's so hard not to fuck wildly the moment he's inside her, especially when she calls out in pleasure. He has a momentary although fleeting recollection of a fantasy he had shortly after meeting her that wasn't really any different from this exact moment. It's like he's always known they'd end up right here. But there's no need to recall fantasies right now.</p><p>Her lips brush against his ear as she breathes excited gasps with the first few careful thrusts, her hips lifting a little more quickly and roughly as she grows accustomed to him and urges him on. </p><p>Their desire escallates, her sex tightening around him, squeezing as he braces his hands on the bed as the encounter intensifies. Her hips rise to meet his each time, the pair finding a synchronicity that makes holding off even harder. He finds exactly the angle that makes her call out even louder and her fingers grasp more possessively. Her hands latch onto his back, pulling him toward her, as her body rises to meet his more vigorously. Any semblance of control he still has over this melts away when she says in the most arousing voice, "Wanna feel you cum inside me."</p><p>He nods, with a grunted sort-of-yea, picking up his pace even more, his movement becoming increasingly less controlled and more impulsive. Her words seem to excite her as much as him, and she's on that last tipping point, her fast and free counter thrusts growing tightly rigid and jerky. The gasps and moans she makes grow louder and shorter, echoing each full meeting of their bodies. Her sex clamps down on him in tight spasms, and he's done, plunging into her with all he has until there's nothing more than heat and bursts of pleasured release so complete that they rob his body of any other sensation but that glorious feeling. </p><p>He tries to steady himself. Her legs are still trapping him inside her, her fingers splayed at the back of his head, holding him to her like he may leave, and she has to hang on. She says his name in a long and grateful sigh like it comes from deep within her chest, like it's always been there. </p><p>He buries his face back between her shoulder and neck, realizing the extent of her vulnerability even through his post-orgasmic stupor. </p><p>Feeling the need for more air, he slips from the warmth of her body and rolls on his back, his arm pulling her so she's partially resting against his side and chest. He wants to tell her he's not running off so soon, that he has no regrets, but words fail him, so he holds her close and hopes she understands.</p><p>His palm pats his chest as his pulse finally begins to slow, and she asks, lightly, "You having a heart attack?"</p><p>He shakes his head no and smiles at her. It's then, when their eyes meet, that he realizes she isn't the only one who's completely vulnerable. She holds his fucking heart in her hands because what they've done hasn't at all eased his feelings or longing for her. </p><p>She bites her lip through her grin, and it warms him, and he's suddenly more invigorated than tired, that feeling of being alive when he's with her amplified now. </p><p>He can tell she's thinking, he can practically hear it, so he says, "What? Tell me."</p><p>"Are you gonna freak out?" she asks.</p><p>"No," he answers decisively. Then he admits honestly, "Not now anyway. You?"</p><p>She shoots a look at him that tells him that question is just completely ridiculous. </p><p>"Can I stay for the night?" he asks, wondering if he's been presumptuous by getting comfortable and contemplating another round or two before the night is over.</p><p>"Yea," she chuckles.</p><p>"Cool. I have to leave early tomorrow, Mass in the morning," he explains, noting the first resurgence of guilt that comes in dual pangs, one for his sin against God and one for saying those words to her. At least he enjoyed a few entirely guilt-free moments.</p><p>She teases, "First time I've heard that one! Most people just say they have an early meeting or a long drive back home." He winces a little at the chance she might think this is an excuse.</p><p>There's a lot that can and probably should be discussed. They both know it. But she continues, "For tonight, let's just be here." </p><p>Perhaps she thinks if they talk too much about what's going on, what they share might all fall apart.</p><p>"Okay," he nods. "Then tomorrow we can...figure out…"</p><p>"Yea," she affirms. </p><p>Changing the subject, the backs of his knuckles brush down over her ribs and side and hip, and he says, "But tonight…"</p><p>"Yea," she replies with great interest, adoration in full display on her face, "tonight."</p><p>He's fucked even more than before. He knows it. He's completely, utterly, entirely in love, and there's no way out of that now. Scarier still is the fact that he doesn't really want a way out at all. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A/N-So I'm finally back after far too long. I apologize, my partner has not been well and between doc visits and other associated things, I haven't had much free time. I'm still here, and still plan to continue. Thank you all so much for your support. This year just keeps giving!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Also, on a deeply personal note, please...we can't lose our momentum in the fight for equity and justice. It seems we're reminded of these heartbreaking injustices far too often as they are still happening with frightening regularity. There is still so much work to be done! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Again, thank you all for you patience and kindness.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Five o'clock comes far too early the next morning. If The Priest had to guess, if he could take all of the little moments of sleep he's had all night and combine them, it all would add up to about an hour. He's so exhausted that when he opens his eyes from this latest catnap and finds himself staring right into her eyes, he gets a little dizzy. Or maybe the dizziness is her. Or God. He's not really sure.</p><p>His clothes were left in a pile on the floor, and he is aware of the disrespect he's shown these items by casting them aside to wrinkle in a pile, literally tossing the most overt sign of his priesthood out of the way when he wanted to. </p><p>He hopes to get back to the rectory before Pam wakes. He probably won't succeed in this, and she'll attempt to sound like she's only making conversation even though curiosity will be killing her, and she'll hint at the real questions she wants to ask. </p><p>Once he's dressed and his Love is cloaked in a bathrobe, he finds it pains him to cut this encounter off and leave. He's not ready for this to end. She, too, is sleepy, much quieter than usual, just smiling at him in a shyly sweet, smitten sort of way. </p><p>She doesn't ask anything of him as he prepares to leave, doesn't expect him to reassure her of his feelings. She doesn't await promises of calls or a future meeting. She doesn't even tell him it was an amazing night (it fucking was) or ask if he wants to do it again some time in a casual kind of way. </p><p>Just as he says, "I'll call you–" she interrupts him with a parting kiss. </p><p>It is soft, not at all meant to incite or tempt. He thinks she's taking the opportunity to say goodbye while she can. When she smiles and whispers, "Thanks," he realizes she truly expects nothing more from him. </p><p>Maybe she thinks if she expects nothing, she won't be disappointed.</p><p>"Thank <em> you</em>," he replies, finding the temptation to slip his hands beneath her robe and stay a little longer growing to a nearly unmanageable level. </p><p>And just as temptation begins to tiptoe toward action, she steps back enough to disconnect them, opening the door so he can leave. She jokes, "Have a good day, Dear," like they're a normal couple starting their days. Those words remind him of how un-normal they are, and how simultaneously impossible and wonderful this whole thing feels. </p><hr/><p>I go about my day as usual, walking the thin line between the two directions my feelings might go: totally, ridiculously smitten, or devastated and crushed by the loss I might experience very shortly. The thing is...I don't know yet. I don't know if My Priest is gone and I've already lost him, or if things between us are still very much on. </p><p>The thought that maybe he won't freak out and disappear is a bit overwhelming as well. Because last night was...was...Jesus! As good as the sex was, and it was quite good in the sort of technical sense, the connection between us was stronger than I'd been prepared for. </p><p>
  <em> I really feel something this time. It's quite terrifying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But since, in actuality, I may have absolutely nothing left but a broken heart and a strange, intense love for someone whom I will compare to all others for the rest of my existence, I try to keep everything I'm feeling from getting away from me.  </em>
</p><p><em> You know the really odd part? If he disappears, never to be seen or heard from again and I'm absolutely crushed, I still wouldn't change a fucking thing. I'd still get in that cab, still pursue him, still hold on to every last second before the end. </em> </p><p>The day comes and goes, and I close up the café. I wonder if I should send a funny little message to him, but I can't think of anything and I wonder if a funny text seems too flippant after last night. Every time I close my eyes or find a moment of silence, I remember some bit of our time together, enough to turn me on and take my breath away, and then let me feel the power of my missing him. My walk home isn't short of these memories and a kind of constant churning through things in my mind. </p><p>When I'm almost there, I can practically hear his voice. Then I realize I really am hearing his voice, calling out as he jogs up behind me. I wait for him to catch up, and he's a little breathless when he does, muttering something, along the lines of, "Your legs are so long…"</p><p>"That's what you so urgently wanted to tell me?" I chuckle.</p><p>"No, no,  no. You...I mean...you walk fast and…and…" he pauses, shaking his head and giving a lopsidedly enamored smirk. Like calm has settled over him, his hand rests on his stomach when he says, "It's good to see you."</p><p>"You too," I whisper back, my voice somewhere between shy and flirty. "I wasn't sure if I would...ever," I admit.</p><p>He only nods as he looks away, admitting the possibility that that could have happened. Inhaling until his shoulders rise noticeably, he asks, "Do you want to–?"</p><p>"Yea," I answer immediately before he gets a chance to finish the thought. It doesn't really matter what he wants to do, I want to do it with him. </p><p>"Yea? Me too. Good," he replies, bobbing his head, and we start to walk somewhere even though we haven't really expressly said where we're going. </p><p>He glances at me as we walk and asks, "Think we should go out? Get a drink?"</p><p>"Not really," I reply.</p><p>"Oh, thank God," he answers with a little relieved laugh.</p><p>Truth is, the details are unimportant. We just want to be together, so I offer, "Want to come back to m–"</p><p>"I do." His answer comes as quickly and eagerly as my own did.</p><p>He asks about my day, and I can't seem to remember a single customer or order or thing that happened, even though the café, at times, was packed. The only thing I remember is waking up beside him and everything that happened in the hours before. I get the same vague answers when I ask him about his day, and wonder if he walked around in the same fog I did.</p><p>I don't know what prompts it, but a switch flips, and he's suddenly very serious when he admits, "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."</p><p>"That's okay."</p><p>"Is it? Doesn't seem fair to you. Or to... Y–you're all I can think about, you're there in every breath... But I'm still..."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"I don't know what to do about…" he points at himself like there's a collar, even though there isn't one currently.</p><p>"Look," I explain, "It's just sex. You don't have to make a big deal–"</p><p>"It's more to me. Is that all this is to you?" he snaps, turning toward me, feet planted. "If that's true, then just tell me right fucking now, and I'll go on with my life and throw myself back into God and the Church and try to forget all this." He rakes his fingers through his hair as he shakes his head in frustration. </p><p>I chuckle nervously, worriedly, more surprised by this than anything. <em> How many people spend one night together and decide they have to know exactly wh– </em></p><p>"Are you even listening to me?" he sharply questions. </p><p>"I am!"</p><p>He throws his hands in the air, turns slightly away, sorting through what looks like a million emotions and decisions and interpretations. </p><p>It's clear he's feeling vulnerable and uncertain and the words I'd thought would help him feel better did not have the desired effect.</p><p>"I didn't say <em> this </em> was just sex," I gesture between us, speaking cautiously. "I said sex itself is...sex. It's not murder, we're not hurting anyone. It's human. Normal. Healthy even, at times. I don't think you need to have all kinds of guilt about it. It's not a sign of weakness to fall in love with someone, is it, really? You said it yourself...it takes bravery. And hope. We were just sort of...expressing that. Or so I thought."</p><p>I can see his level of stress actually ease a little upon hearing this. His hands shove firmly back into his pockets, and I can feel his thoughts churning. </p><p>"I'm not good at this...this kind of...thing," I admit as we start to walk again.</p><p>"I'm not either," he agrees.</p><p>"I'm trying, though. I really am. I want to try."</p><hr/><p>The Priest looks out a small kitchen window, palms anchored on the counter, while his Love pours drinks. He feels nervous with her in a way he didn't really experience much in years of going home with people. But that was sort of his point...this isn't merely sex or casual fun.</p><p>She reaches an arm around him to offer a glass. He takes a sip, still feeling this intense vulnerability that kind of terrifies him. Everything in his life might be about to change. Or, worse perhaps, maybe everything will oh so quickly go back to exactly the way it was.</p><p>He wonders if she can hear inside his head sometimes when she steps close behind him and winds her arms around him. "You alright?" she asks, resting her chin on his shoulder.</p><p>"Of course," he answers, leaning his back against her, glancing at her and finding such a soft expression. He's powerless when he sees it.</p><p>Her hand rests against his stomach, her body warm at his back. He closes his eyes, lets himself be wrapped in her embrace, and feels the depths of her caring travel into him. He puts down his drink and covers her hand with his. It's truly shocking how good it feels. He doesn't think he's realized how much he's missed this kind of contact until just now.  </p><p>The clink of her glass on the counter breaks the silence before her other hand settles on his abdomen. Her cheek presses to his as her palm moves over him, coming to rest over his heart. They breathe together, and as his breaths get shorter and faster, hers follow in kind. </p><p>Desires for sex and love, the two inexorible between them, permeate this moment. She tugs up the bottom of his shirt, and carefully pops the lowest button open. He's already thoroughly captivated, titillated, lost in all that he knows is to come. And he wants this, wants her, wants them, even more than before he ever had her. </p><p>He can picture every moment with complete clarity even though his eyes are tightly closed, opening them to find her studying him. </p><p>"Sorry," she says, suddenly stilling.</p><p>"What?" he barely manages the word.</p><p>"I was on the verge of completely ruining my attempt to show you that this isn't just about fantastic sex."</p><p>With a subdued chuckle, he shakes his head, focusing in on her, and says, "I said I didn't want it to be <em> only </em> sex. I didn't mean there shouldn't be any sex at all."</p><p>"Is that so?" She's pleased with herself.</p><p>"We're really good together...we have chemistry, compatibility."</p><p>"I thought so."</p><p>"'Shame to waste that, don't you think? Unless last night was a fluke," he says with lilting provocation.</p><p>"Might be," she smirks. "Only one way to find out."</p><p>Her fingers that rest on his heart slip up his chest and over his neck, coming to his jaw. She touches his chin and guides his lips to hers as they kiss over his shoulder. </p><p>Additional buttons are opened one by one, and she draws the shirt down off his shoulders before she tosses it aside, and skims a touch all over his chest and stomach, shoulders and arms. Patience, something he's struggled with his whole life and only really found since he devoted his life to God, eludes him now entirely. The will to act on growing needs makes him want to turn to face her, already envisioning pulling her against him and lifting her up onto the counter so he can finally get back to her. How desperately he wants to make her orgasm. But her hands lock tightly on his hips, preventing a turnaround, showing him exactly where she wants him to stay.</p><p>She slips the tail of his leather belt through the latch, and his senses are so keenly aware that he can feel each of the teeth of the zipper release. She pushes his trousers and underwear to mid thigh, and he can't help but watch as her hand moves toward his cock. Those seconds of anticipation feel like hours. Her thumb and forefinger curl around the base of his shaft and take a few loose strokes. Her other hand presses more firmly against his abdomen, keeping his body tightly against hers, refusing to give up the embrace.</p><p>He pulls his eyes away from the scalding hot sight of her beating him off and looks back over his shoulder. Since she doesn't want him to turn around yet, he leans toward her, licking the space between her lips until they part and allow his tongue into her mouth. Her fingers tighten just a little more around his erection, the scarce amount of control they can summon between them slipping away. Her own forced calm evaporates as she moans against him.</p><p>Finally she turns him, toes a chair away from the table, and guides him to take a seat. He watches her slip out of her underwear and his hands are immediately on her hips to pull her closer. His legs open so she can stand between them, back in a tight embrace. Tugging at the waist of her skirt, he realizes there must be a zipper or buttons or something, and both hands swarm around her to try to find it, but it's hidden from him, so he pushes the skirt up around her hips and holds on.</p><p>She steps over his one leg, then the other, astride his lap as she finally lowers to him. He doesn't get any chance to offer her the sort of warmup she's given him, but she doesn't seem interested in that. When she allows him into her body, she's wonderfully slick from anticipation. Things slow between them just a little as he pushes inside her and her body accepts him. Her eyes lock on his, the pleasure each feels at their reunion on overt display. Neither is willing to look away.</p><p>Her arms rest on his shoulders, his hands finding her waist just below her ribs beneath her top. Curling one arm around her back, he reaches between them, his knuckle brushing against her clit. Her eyes flutter closed at the touch and a sexy little smile crosses her lips as she leans back and indulges in the feeling of it all. </p><p>From inside her, he feels those flutters just beginning, ones that tell him he's doing something right, hoping her excitement is catching up to his own. His hands lock behind her to firmly bring her front to his, to guide her against him and him into her. They just sort of rock together at first, connected, feeling very much as one, finding each other in that closeness again. </p><p>As wonderful as that feels, the need for more boils hotly below the surface. His hips rise from the seat, longing for the heat of greater movement. And when she gasps at that, a sound full of her own wants, he finds no need for restraint.</p><p>He pushes her up onto the table that's just behind her, settling back between her legs in an instant. He yanks off her top, and she helps him fling it out of the way. His fingers find her sides, gliding down her ribs. He reaches under her thighs, her legs butterflying out as he sinks back into her again with a deeply relieved moan. </p><p>Just as his pace quickens, she braces one hand on the table behind her while her fingers slip between them. With a brush of lips, she says, "Don't slow down," in a need-filled kind of way. But he does slow a little, looking between them, watching her fingertips swirling over her clit before his eyes lift to watch her face. He notes the way she seems to brace for disapproval, but he bites his lip as the scene before him only makes him that much more aroused.</p><p>Firming his hold on her body, he lifts her slightly as he plunges back in, urgency clamoring between them. The scrapes of the table legs on the floor make squeaky sounds that join their own. When she gets to the point where she wants to be, that point when her orgasm is just cresting, her hand falls away from between them, returning to his shoulders, her wet fingers resting against his back as they wantonly screw each other until they're through. And, fuck, that ending hits with wonderful fury.</p><p>He slides back down onto the chair when his body is loose and satisfied, bringing her into his lap. He holds her tightly, still, his forehead resting on her shoulder. Her body is so relaxed she feels heavier, draped over him, her slightly parted lips resting against his temple. </p><p>Having sex with her only deepens his feelings, does nothing at all to diffuse this thundering love he feels for her. But he's always known that would be the case.</p><p>She mumbles, "You have no idea how much I needed that."</p><p>"I may have an inkling."</p><p>"Yea? And I know what you're playing at...saying all those lovey things about what's going on with us just to get me to have sex with you again," she teases, refusing to let go of him, holding on like she really doesn't want him to go anywhere at all.</p><p>At that, he can see the way her love for him has grown, too. She couldn't mask it if she wanted to, it's there, full and entire. Thank God. "You found me out," he plays back, holding her with equal strength in the hopes that whatever they have may not slip from his grasp and disappear forever.</p><hr/><p>Over the next several days, they attempt to meet all of their normal obligations while they're swept up in an affair that wants to consume them. When they're alone at night, or they hide out in the back of her café, or they find an excuse for an early morning meet up, it almost feels like they're an ordinary couple sharing a somewhat extraordinary connection. But he always has to leave to go back, back to the church and duties and promises that he's really only partially keeping. </p><p>In some ways the secrecy and forbidden nature of it all are thrilling, and in some ways they are stifling. Still, it seems foolish to mess with something that's working out so well overall. </p><p>They talk about various things in their limited time together, but seldom about his vocation or where this all may lead. At times they even make tentative plans for 'one day,' promising to do this or that, even though neither of them knows if they'll ever have the chance. When they're alone, reality sort of suspends for a while. </p><p>His Love never makes him explain or guilts him when he has to go in order to maintain some secrecy about this. She doesn't complain that they sneak around.</p><p>One of the few nights he's able to stay the whole night through, when they wake in the morning, feeling particularly enamored, she offers to go along with him most of the way back to his church. She has errands to run, and they both like the thought of a little more time spent together before parting. It's a beautiful morning, the kind that makes him wish he were unencumbered and they could do whatever they wanted.</p><p>When they're nearly at the church, just as she mentions that she should probably be going in a separate direction, her eyes grow wide with surprise, and she steps into the bushes, muttering, "Oh God!"</p><p>"What are you doing?" he laughs.</p><p>"My Godmother is there!" his Love points toward the church. "I don't know what she's doing up so early or–"</p><p>He wants to tell her it's ridiculous that she's literally hiding in the bushes to avoid detection, but his laughter fades as he realizes the woman he loves is forced to literally hide in greenery in order to protect his secret. It's no small amount of guilt he feels over this. "Look," he says, reaching for her arm to bring her back out into the light, but she withdraws.</p><p>"Just go...deal with her. It's okay."</p><p>"You shouldn't have to–"</p><p>"It's fine," she insists, more amused by it all than upset, using a finger to hold back a twig that keeps poking her cheek. In fact, she seems to think it's rather hilarious. "Get going."</p><p>"Okay," he agrees with great reservation. He doesn't think it's that funny. He doesn't really like it at all.</p><p>Before he can walk too far away, she says, "Hey," and waits for him to turn around. She flirts, "See you later."</p><p>The look she gives pierces his heart and fills it with more than he thinks he can handle, stealing a beat or two. The thought that she's not even angry, that she still expects so very little from him, really bothers him. He should appreciate it, feel grateful and lucky, but it doesn't seem right. Clearly she means far more to him than this, she's more than someone to hide in the shadows whenever their relationship is inconvenient.</p><p>He wonders if she accepts this all so easily because she thinks there cannot be more, or maybe she's worried that if he has to choose it won't turn out well for them. Perhaps she likes the fact that he's not free because she doesn't want things to get too serious. He realizes she's quizzically watching, pointing in the direction he's supposed to go. </p><p>He finally responds, "Can I come find you this evening?"</p><p>"Yes, please," she responds without reservation.</p><p>He walks away indecisively, his legs going in the right direction even though he turns back to her a few times before he commits to going toward the church's front door. His Love's Stepmother waits for him there, carrying the black garment bag he'd somehow completely forgotten when he ran out after the wedding the night he pursued the woman who possesses his heart. </p><p>When he's near enough to the newly married woman, he says as casually as possible, "Good morning! How's married life?"</p><p>"Fine, just fine, Father," she says with a smile that feels more suspicious than friendly, clearly disappointed with his general lack of priestliness at this moment.</p><p>"Great!"</p><p>"You're out awfully early, aren't you?" she asks, her eyes moving over him like she's performing an assessment. He wonders what she's able to see.</p><p>"It's a beautiful morning for a walk," he replies. It's not a lie. The sun is almost blindingly bright, birds in the courtyard are happily singing.</p><p>"Yes, yes, indeed." She holds the bag out for him, and when he begins to reach for it, she pulls back. "I saw your assistant moments ago and she said she hadn't seen you this morning at all. I do hope everything is alright."</p><p>"Was up and about early today," he replies. It's still not a lie. "Thanks for bringing these," he cheerily says, changing the subject and taking the handle of his bag.</p><p>"Well, if I'm honest, I'm rather disappointed."</p><p>"And why's that?"</p><p>"I'd rather hoped you might stop by to pick them up."</p><p>"It's not polite to impose on a newly married couple." Technically it's still not a lie, but he knows he didn't go retrieve the bag because he'd completely forgotten about it. "I appreciate you taking the trouble."</p><p>"No trouble at all." She stares with a wide-eyed grin. "You didn't need them then?"</p><p>"These are just for weddings. Haven't performed any of those since yours." He nods, hoping she's ready to let this go.</p><p>"Yes, of course," she answers. "It was lovely, just lovely."</p><p>"Thanks. Although I did only a small part, the whole wedding with the flowers and the decorations and th–th–the...it was just…elegant and," he can't think of another word, so he parrots, "...lovely."</p><p>"Well, I should let you get about your day."</p><p>"You, too. Thank you for returning these. And congratulations!"</p><p>He's ready for her to leave and stop eying him so curiously. Besides, he has a lot to sort out.</p><p>She sighs contentedly, "Don't be a stranger. You should come 'round. Have a drink. I could show you my latest piece."</p><p>"Oh! How nice."</p><p>"Don't worry…" she says, her eyes locked on him as she pauses, "...I'll be sure my rather disruptive stepdaughter isn't around so we can avoid any unpredictably violent outbursts." She pauses, waiting with eagle-eyed and gape-mouthed anticipation to receive his reply since she's clearly poking for information. </p><p>He cringes, his attempt to smile failing horribly. He begins slowly, trying to figure out how to say enough without saying too much, "Well, given the circumstances the night of that dinner, I think we can all try to–" </p><p>"You're so kind," she interrupts. She holds his forearm, "<em>So kind. </em>And forgiving. Such a wonderful man." At that she's already leaving, shouting back that he should swing by and visit.</p><p>He carries his wedding vestments into the church to hang them back up correctly, knowing as he does so that this secrecy thing doesn't really suit him. His Love deserves more. If, in fact, she wants more. He <em> really </em>hopes she does. </p><p>He remembers the one somewhat intense argument they'd had recently where he insisted that what they shared was more than sex. He made it very clear that it was more than that to him. And since that day, they've done little else but have sex, so his words seem out of line with his actions. Truth is, he really does need to take a good look at what he plans to do with his life, and at some point, they'll have to have a real discussion about where things between them are headed. They can't live in the shadows forever.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <strong> <em>A/N-Still slowly trying to keep up! Thanks for all of your support and kindness. Sometimes writing these stories and escaping is the thing keeping me sane when it feels like everything is going wrong. You've all been so wonderful, and I truly appreciate it. I'd like to go on for a few more chapters. I hope the slow updates don't ruin the story. Here's the next. :)</em> </strong>
</p><hr/><p>The Priest talks aloud as he walks through the church, collecting old hymnals to replace them with new ones just received earlier in the day. It's funny how prayer and self-reflection just sort of continue on all of the time, and how his conversations with himself are shared with God and those he has specifically with God are also with himself. It's not that his love of God has dwindled or faltered, and he knows he needs to make things right, but he feels he's struck a bargain with his Father to give him some time to figure everything out. He's not sure whether God truly agrees or he just wants to think he heard that. </p><p>For the moment, he's happily chatting to God about this aliveness he feels in his heart until he hears someone say, "I've been intensely worried about you," and the words echo through the church.  The Priest startles and whips around, seeing Ann walking down the aisle with clear determination.</p><p>"Oh, hi!" he somewhat unsteadily replies. "I'm sorry, I've been busy with all sorts of...things and other...things."</p><p>"Of course. You did the wedding?"</p><p>"I did."</p><p>"How'd that go?" she asks even though she clearly expects it's gone well just by looking at him. She's smirking proudly through her attempts to hide it.</p><p>"It turned out really well. Fantastically."</p><p>She pauses momentarily, respectfully nodding at the altar up ahead like she's saying hello to the Almighty. Ann continues, "You look like you're feeling much better than the last time I saw you."</p><p>He nods for a good four seconds before replying, "I am. I truly am."</p><p>"That's goo—"</p><p>"Even though I am still entirely, thoroughly...fucked."</p><p>"You'll sort it out. Some answers take time."</p><p>"Well, I need to sort it out before I ruin everything."</p><p>"Ruin everything?" she asks like he may be a bit overdramatic.</p><p>"I can't have her diving into the bushes every time we go for a morning walk," he declares, soaking in the disapproving feeling he's casting on himself.</p><p>Greatly perplexed, Ann questions, "Figuratively?"</p><p>"No," he chuckles. "She offered to walk home with me this morning. It was so nice. I was feeling so...hopeful. Then someone was waiting on the front steps of the church, and this woman I've fallen completely in love with...this woman who truly has my heart, very literally hid in the bushes down the street to try to avoid creating suspicion. To keep my secret. I can't keep living this double life. I need to be honest. But still the thought of leaving God...of ending my vocation...still I can't leave her. I owe them both so much more."</p><p>Ann nods, considers, and thoughtfully adds, "I can't breathe without God. But I have no desire to continue to breathe without love."</p><p>The Priest chuckles at the familiarity of the sentiment. </p><p>"There's more than one way to be close to God," she says like he's ridiculous for not realizing that. "I understand how difficult such things are, I do, having faced that myself when I knew I had a calling."</p><p>"Even trickier still…" he begins, then fades off, shaking his head to tell her he won't finish that thought.</p><p>"Keep going."</p><p>"If I would have been seeing someone ten years ago, and after a few weeks, they insisted I tell them where I thought it was all going...you know...if it's serious or not...I would have thought them mad..or at the very least extraordinarily clingy."</p><p>"Understandable."</p><p>"And yet that's exactly what I sort of expect of her. I want to know if she...feels about this the same way I do."</p><p>"It is a somewhat complicated situation. Find some time when you won't be too quickly interrupted and talk to her." Noting The Priest's cringe, she continues, "Having spent a fair amount of time talking to her...she knows the difference between love and lust, relationships and sex. And she's not at all timid about making those distinctions."</p><p>"True."</p><p>"If she just wanted the physical side of this, I think you'd know it."</p><p>"I know it's more than that. She's said that. It's just so new. So fast."</p><p>"You don't have to seek or expect definitive answers...you only need to start the conversation. The real problems come, in my experience, when people try to guess or interpret what the other is thinking...that's when problems start because we so often get it wrong."</p><p>He considers this. "Really…" he finally begins, glancing around for an answer, "I think she's the only reason I'd ever leave. And that's not the sort of thing I can say to—"</p><p>"God, that is so terribly romantic," Ann interrupts with a sigh, lost for a second or two.</p><p>"It's awful. What a terrible thing—"</p><p>"It's not awful. Tell her how you feel, that you don't want to pressure her, but you'd like to know where she stands because you have decisions to make. Be open about what you're thinking. And she may not know what she wants yet, you may not either, really. But if you're both talking about it, then you know where the other person is coming from, and you can start to really look at what your possibilities are."</p><p>"If we take some kind of leap and it all falls apart in flames—"</p><p>He can tell she's about to say something he probably won't like before she even says it. Gently she begins, "The priesthood shouldn't be a place to hide because you're afraid of love. If that happens, if it goes wrong, you'll be crushed. Heartbroken. You'll ache and cry and mourn the loss of something wonderful. And you'll find a way to carry on."</p><p>"That helps," he dryly replies.</p><p>With certainty and happiness, she says, "Love, life...so many of God's greatest gifts...are tremendous risks. That's what makes it so painful and exciting and rewarding and terrifying and memorable." </p><hr/><p>The Priest, deciding to try to bring their relationship out of the shadows and a little bit back into the world, arranges a proper date with his Love. Sort of. He's pleased when she responds to his message as quickly and eagerly as she does.</p><p>When he appears at her doorstep that evening, finding her already dressed in her overcoat, he cheerily says, "Oh good! You're ready," and waits for her to come out to join him.</p><p>"Aren't you coming in?" she asks, taking a look at him and studying his relatively nice-looking going out clothes.</p><p>"We'll get sidetracked if I come in. Let's go."</p><p>"Go?"</p><p>Baffled, he replies, "Yea. I asked if you wanted to go out, and you said—"</p><p>"I thought you were joking!"</p><p>"I wasn't," he insists.</p><p>She fades off into the distance for a second, then says, "This is all I have on," waving her hand down the coat. </p><p>He momentarily fixates on the possibilities that stand perfectly within his reach. </p><p>He shakes his head to clear the fog, entering the flat feeling flustered. Placing his hand on a safe spot (her elbow), he nudges her toward her room and says, "Go on. Get dressed, and we'll go out a little while."</p><p>"You sure?" She looks baffled. </p><p>He has a point to prove, a desire to show her she's important to him, that their promises to each other that this is more than sex are true. "Yea. I can come back and stay tonight. At least most of the night. I—if that's okay."</p><p>"Of course it's okay."</p><p>"Good. Great!"</p><p>He's tempted to follow her to her room but doesn't because he's reminded daily of how little control he has when it comes to her.</p><p>He meanders around the flat, looking at the table and seeing dinner set up. He lifts a bottle and reads the label. She bought another bottle of a wine they'd shared over a week ago, one he'd said he particularly liked. Plates of food wait on the nearby counter.</p><p>"My new favorite," he holds up the wine when she returns, mostly dressed but still putting herself together.</p><p>"I know," she smiles, blushing rampantly like she's embarrassed that he'll figure out what he means to her.</p><p>"You made dinner," he acknowledges.</p><p>"More like unwrapped it."</p><p>"Still."</p><p>"I thought we were playing at going out. Not <em> really </em> going out." It's not a ridiculous assumption. All of their dates these days happen in private.</p><p>He glances at the table, considers her plans and her efforts fondly, and just as he's about to be swayed into staying, she covers the plates and puts them in the refrigerator. The temptation to stay here, alone with her, is a great one. But he says, "We're meeting Ann and Toby shortly, so we shouldn't keep them waiting."</p><p>"Toby?"</p><p>"Ann's husband…" The Priest explains. "The man we've sat with often and talk—"</p><p>"Right, yes." She redirects, "So we're meeting up with friends?"</p><p>"I thought it might add some accountability...encourage us to...spread out beyond these walls."</p><p>"A chaperone to make sure we don't just sit at home and orgasm the night away?" she asks with great amusement.</p><p>"Makes my suggestion to go out seem <em> really </em> foolish when you put it so beautifully," he chuckles. He comes very close, so close he can nearly feel her touching him. "Come out with me for a few hours. And then, when we come back here, I promise to show my appreciation for your patience in any way you choose."</p><p>In a thoroughly coquettish tone, she mentions, "This place could use a good scrubbing."</p><p>"What else would I be suggesting?" He plays along because he loves to make her smile.</p><p>"You ready then?" she cheerily inquires.</p><p>The pair are off, having successfully left the house for a night out together. It's a notable accomplishment. </p><p>After a few seconds, she asks the question that seems to be stirring in her mind, "Do they know...about us and...you know...what's going on?"</p><p>"Oh," he realizes perhaps he should have mentioned this before, and the counsel Ann had provided him. "Yea. Ann...I was really having a bit of a crisis before the wedding and she listened. Helped me work through some of it. And she knows that we're...you know...seeing each other now. Quietly."</p><p>"Ah," is the only answer she gives. </p><p>He waits for more information for what seems like ages. "Are you angry?"</p><p>Tone low, she replies, "About what? Your strange priestly locker room chat sessions—"</p><p>"It wasn't at all like that!" He interrupts vehemently, turning and finding her smiling. "You're fucking with me."</p><p>"Absolutely."</p><p>"You could talk to someone, too. If you want. I don't want you to feel isolated."</p><p>"Oh, I told my sister. She knows...pretty much all of it."</p><p>"You did?" </p><p>"Yea."</p><p>The next few seconds certainly aren't quiet in his head, curiosity raging. When he can't take not knowing, he asks, "Did she...say anything?" </p><p>"She thought I was joking."</p><p>"So she disapproves?"</p><p>"Don't think so. She called me her fucking hero," his Love chuckles. "She knows how hot you are."</p><p>"Please," he waves off the compliment. </p><p>"I think you know what you do."</p><p>"What I do?" he loudly counters, laughing as he goes. Feeling embarrassed, he redirects slightly and says, "You know...Ann claimed she knew we were in love from the first time she saw us."</p><p>"Did she?" His Love's tone suggests some doubt. "Did we even know then?"</p><p>"Probably not." He admits, "I just knew I wanted to be around you. That I wanted to see you again and again. That was my daily goal."</p><p>She looks away, shyness contagiously spreading to her.</p><p>So he pushes just a little more. "In fact...Ann said she thought you loved me before she even laid eyes on me. The day she spoke to you at the café when you were coming to my not-in-the-Bible study."</p><p>"Did she!"</p><p>"She did." He waits. She's still very good at simply not replying. "Well…"</p><p>"Well what?" she asks like he may actually forget what they were discussing. He shoots a disbelieving look, and she replies, "I may have fancied you already. A bit."</p><p>"Oh, only a bit."</p><p>"Maybe quite a bit, actually," she confesses softly, her discomfort at self-disclosure rising. But she offers that sweet smile, one that seems so open and honest and makes him fall in love all over again every time. He thinks there aren't too many people that are fortunate enough to receive that look.</p><p>He wants to reach out, take her hand, do something to show his affection, but he remembers what happened earlier in the day when they ran across her stepmother. He says, "I'm really sorry about this morning...I'm sorry you felt you had to hide like that." He's been thinking about it most of the day.</p><p>His Love laughs at the memory, "It's not a problem."</p><p>"No, it wasn't right. I don't want you to have to hide in order to be with me."</p><p>"Trust me, I've had far worse entanglements. If once in a while I have to duck into the bushes, it's still worlds better than most of the relationships I've been involved in." Her own use of the word 'relationship' seems to startle her a little.  </p><p>He considers this for nearly the whole next block as they walk. Softly, he mentions, "Perhaps it's time to accept that you deserve better than what you've had."</p><p>She glances, smiles a little, and continues on. "I like...being with you. I don't care much about the rest of it."</p><p>He finally manages to say, "I like it, too. I truly do. But I'd really like it if we could try to figure out how to keep being together without the need to hide in the shrubbery or sneak home before dawn."</p><p>She chuckles. Sadly he realizes they're just steps away from the restaurant, and she'll be able to let the topic drop if she wishes to. </p><p>She grabs the handle, and as she opens the door says, "I'd like that, too."</p><p>They're both grinning with oddly sober yet drunken-looking smiles when they meet Ann and her husband at their usual spot. </p><p>Once they're seated, The Priest and his Love find themselves tenser than they used to be here, though. It's unexpectedly awkward. In fact, these booths used to be the places where they'd sneak touches and find closeness, but now that they're together, they try to keep a little distance, guards up against the possibility of discovery. This seems to prove his point about the downside of hiding.</p><p>Just after they all order, Toby says to the server, "Can you package that all up for us?"</p><p>Everyone stares at him as he makes the arrangements for takeaway.</p><p>As soon as they're outside, stuffed bags in hand, he states, "I can't stand the sight of the two of you trying to pretend you're casual acquaintances. It's painful. What the hell is going on?"</p><p>Ann laughs at the truth of the statement as The Priest and his Love both gear up to try to deny it, but eventually realize their attempt is futile and unnecessary.</p><p>They hear Toby ask Ann, "You knew about this?" She smiles and shrugs, her approval of this matchup clear. </p><p>He sighs, "Well, we'll go home, and there you can resume your usual smitten stares while hanging on each other's every word. Mmkay?"</p><p>Once they're inside Ann and Toby's home, coats hung by the door, The Priest feels the tension begin to melt away, grateful for friends who are so accepting.</p><p>Within moments, conversation is back to the way it used to be with these four, laughing and talking over topics covering a strange mix of holy and decidedly less-than-holy topics. Their normal. After they eat, The Priest sits with his arm behind her chair, his fingers brushing her shoulder as she leans slightly toward him.</p><p>At one point, Ann mentions a scheduled retreat she's taking with other clergy. </p><p>"We could use a little retreat," The Priest's Love says, turning and catching his eyes, plenty of mischievous enticement in her expression. </p><p>He stares like he's frozen there until he has to let his eyes close to break away and swing his head toward their friends. He agrees, "We do."</p><p>"Take a Preacher's week end?" Ann asks.</p><p>His Love shakes her head, "God, no! If we get away, I don't want to get stuck doing a bunch of church stuff with other people."</p><p>"I know that!" Ann replies with a howl, cracking open another bottle of wine and filling her friends' glasses. "Preacher's week end...as in Tuesday to Thursday...you know...since we clerical types are so busy Saturdays and Sundays."</p><p>"Right!" </p><p>"We could do that," The Priest replies. "I could get someone to stand in for me for a few days. Can you get away from the café?"</p><p>She answers before the question is finished, "I'll work it out."</p><p>"Where should we go?"</p><p>"We have a cottage," Ann interjects like an overeager cupid. "Just at the edge of the town where I grew up...the place I told you about," she nods at The Priest, and he remembers very clearly the story she told of the priest and the caretaker. "You'd actually be doing me a favor if you could check on the place. I haven't been up in a while. No one there would know you."</p><p>"That sounds good to me. You?" The Priest asks his Love.</p><p>"Sure," she replies, already so busy thinking about it that her cheeks flush.</p><p>"It's nothing special. But it's cozy, and you'll have some privacy," Ann adds, "time to be together."</p><p>"Meets all my stringent criteria."</p><p>"Agreed," The Priest echoes. </p><p>His fingers tap rapidly on his glass, a manifestation of his excitement at the thought of them having a few days together without obligations or distractions. </p><hr/><p>It really is a lovely evening. I'm reminded of how much I adore the sound of him telling a story, and the cozy feeling of being near, the comfortable familiarity of someone I love at my side as we share a bit of fun.</p><p>I hadn't really wanted a night out, but it turned out to be truly enjoyable. To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised he trusted anyone with our secret. </p><p>The really cool thing, the thing that's been missing every other time we hung out with our friends, is that I already know My Priest is coming home with me afterwards. There won't be any strange lingering at the door as I wonder if he'll finally cave to the massive attraction between us. </p><p>We'll have the chance to enjoy all of this tension we've built while flirting for hours. </p><p>He looks so filled with hope and possibility. I'm really trying not to get ahead of myself about where all this is headed.</p><p>His phone rings, and as he talks to the person on the other end, glancing at me with regretful eyes, I know he has to go before he tells me as much.</p><p>As soon as he ends the call, he says, "Someone from the congregation needs surgery, tonight, some sort of accident. The family asked for me to bless her if I can get there in time and—"</p><p>"It's okay," I answer, taking his hand in mine. </p><p>"I really need to go. I know I'm disappointing you yet again."</p><p>I sarcastically reply, "I certainly expect you to ignore the sick and dying so I won't be disappointed."</p><p>He rubs the tension in his face with his hand, "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."</p><p>"I know," I reply. "Now get going."</p><p>He embraces me, here on the streets, his hand cradling my cheek, lips meeting mine quickly but with a familiarity that makes the connection between us pretty clear. It's sweet and tender and an obvious expression of feelings more than urges. He's forgetting we're supposed to hide.</p><hr/><p>It's late, closer to dawn than midnight at this point. He stayed with the family after blessing the young woman who'd been in an accident, remained and prayed with them as they waited until news came that the procedure had been a success. </p><p>After leaving the still bustling and bright hospital behind, he steps into the dark night air and thinks of how he only wishes to drop into bed and sleep. When his mind's eye pictures doing exactly that, it's not the neatly made, cooly crisp sheets of his solitary housing bed he thinks of. He pictures his Love's bed, blankets warmed and messed up by her presence, her skin soft against his, the silence broken by the heavy exhales of sleep. </p><p>Every day he feels pulled between his two loves, remembering Ann's words when she told him she cannot breathe without God, but has no desire to breathe without love.</p><p>He feels in his pocket for his keys, checking, verifying that his Love's key is still on his ring. She'd given it to him one day when he'd had a meeting and she was at the café, and she told him he could use it if he got to her flat first. Neither mentioned giving it back, so he'd kept it. She'd made a similar offer for him to use it a few days later, telling him he could go in if she was running late, or "in case these things come up," but it wasn't necessarily a blanket invitation to come whenever he wished. Was it?</p><p>Rustling heard down an alley makes him worry of foxes he doesn't see but suspects, so he hurries on, knowing he's going to her flat before he's even admitted that to himself.</p><p>He plays through scenarios as he goes, arguing back and forth, wondering if showing up so late is creepy and strange, or romantic and wonderful.</p><p>Through a storm of questions, he finds himself at her door. If she doesn't like this drop by, he'll apologize profusely and return the key. He's been getting a lot of practice at apologies lately, he thinks.</p><p>The door creaks ridiculously upon opening, a door he never remembers making any sort of noise before. It seems every floorboard groans at his presence, and he wonders if that's a sign he shouldn't be here. Now that she may have heard him, it would be really weird if he ran off without a word, so the decision has already been made. He thinks about how celibacy really was a lot less complicated. Boring, too.</p><p>He goes to her room, pausing at the doorway. Looking in on her, he's only able to see the outline of her form cocooned in blankets, head nestled into a fluffy pillow. His own pillow is waiting for him, empty beside hers, his spot preserved.</p><p>Raising his hand to gently knock on the door frame, he pauses when she flips over and lifts the sheets up to invite him in next to her.  When he doesn't immediately respond, she murmurs sleepily, "Hurry up. Getting cold."</p><p>He takes two long steps to the nearest side of her bed, eagerly accepting the invitation as he strips down to his shorts. Just before he gets in, he whispers, "Sorry to just come by unannounced."</p><p>Her eyes finally flutter open, and she says, "Would you just get in the fucking bed?"</p><p>"Of course," he chuckles, obediently taking his spot in the place where he's wanted to find himself for hours now.</p><p>The covers settle around them, and her body conforms to his almost instantly. Lying on his back, his arm slips under her so he can hold her close even though by morning his fingers will be numb and tingly from reduced circulation. When his muscles surrender to relaxation, he's unable to control the relieved sigh that results from finding some peace. </p><p>His eyes grow instantly heavy. </p><p>"She alright?" his Love asks before drifting back off. </p><p>"What?"</p><p>"The woman...hospital...she okay?"</p><p>"Oh, yea. Yes. Looks like, anyway."</p><p>"That's good."</p><p>He's very nearly asleep, thinking of those worries that often nag him, worries in the back of his mind that maybe she isn't as dumbfoundedly in love with him as he is with her. Or if she has grown bored with him and his devotion to God already, no longer finding that aspect of him challenging, intriguing, or quirky, but rather an impediment or flaw. Those worries feel ridiculous now that he's in her embrace. He can see her lips are slightly upturned at the corners, like an involuntary smile, her long, delicate fingers, without any thought, brushing the front edge of his shoulder with the scarcest of touches. There's something about this sleepy cuddle and the way she asked about his day and how things turned out that feels as warm and comforting as the bed itself.</p><p>He's not even certain she's awake when she says, "Was hoping you'd find your way over here when you were through."</p><p>His face turns toward her, his lips pressing to her forehead before he finally finds sleep.</p>
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